To The Bone
by Bicoastal
Summary: In the course of working a serial killer case, an old friend of Grissom's seems to be interested in Sara.
1. Default Chapter

TO THE BONE

Prolog

The bulldozer stopped with a low clattering rumble, the sound dying away in the still morning air. The operator, a grizzled veteran of twenty years of construction, leaned forward over the wheel, staring at the tangled clutter of debris sliding in a wave of brown dirt, wet sand along the front edge of the scoop.

Something prickled along his spine, and the cold rush of primitive fear slid along his scalp, even though it was already in the eighties with bright Nevada sun shining down. He fumbled with the brake and climbed out of the cab as the site manager came striding over, a sour expression on his face under his thick mustache

"Christ, Pete what is it now? We've got three hours to get this side leveled before Montrose shows up with the new estimates. We're on a schedule!"

"We've got bones, Lloyd."

"Shit." The manager, Lloyd, looked supremely pissed. He smacked a hard denim-covered thigh. "Tell me they're coyote or elk—"

"I see skulls."

"Not again—Jesus, if this is another one of those ancient burial sites then we can kiss this project off. I hate this shit, you know that? Why couldn't these Shoshone or Paiute have buried themselves somewhere ELSE and not here just south of the Strip on prime real estate, you know?"

Pete had moved to the front of the bulldozer and was running his work glove over the top blade. He held up a few fingers covered with reddish brown sludge and his voice shook.

"Lloyd, some of these are still—bloody."

CHAPTER ONE

On the concourse of McCarran Airport, Grissom looked up at the descending escalator from gate 64 and nudged his companion to get her attention.

"There he is. Tall one, in the linen suit."

"The ONLY one in a linen suit, Grissom," Sara pointed out softly, hiding her smile at his enthusiasm. It was always slightly amusing to see him caught up in a little hero-worship, and judging by his current mood, clearly Doctor Simon Munro was definitely one of Gil Grissom's idols.

She could empathize. From her research, Sara knew Munro was outstanding in his field, one of the first scientists to make forensic anthropology a respected and powerful tool in fighting crime and pursuing justice. In his lifetime, Munro had identified Nazi remains, refined carbon dating techniques, worked hundreds of crime scenes and kept himself one of the top in his profession for the past twenty years. Clearly a man to be admired.

Sara shifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and waited patiently as Grissom stepped forward, reaching out a hand to the man now coming off the escalator.

"Gil Grissom! God, is that really you? When did you stop being young and start looking distinguished, kid?" came the low baritone rumble as he pumped Grissom's hand vigorously. Sara liked the sound of that voice, a lion's rumble with hints of New Orleans in it. Next to her, Grissom chuckled, a little ruefully.

"I've been going grey ever since you've known me, Simon. No surprise there—"

"No, but this is—Helloo, Gorgeous! Forgive an old codger his complete political incorrectness," Simon intoned, turning his gaze on Sara. "Honey, whoever you are, you're not only a stunner, you're also too good to be hanging out with this bug boy."

She smiled, feeling slightly warm at the scrutiny of those snapping blue eyes, crinkling as they traveled up and down her with honest admiration.

"Sara Sidle, one of my CSIs, " Grissom introduced her, his voice a little more formal. Simon nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes, the gal you've mentioned who shows a lot of promise. Quick study in a lot of fields, prone to flashes of brilliance if I remember your emails correctly."

Grissom blushed, and slightly intrigued by this unexpected revelation, Sara took a moment to look at Simon clearly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a lean frame and long limbs. His hair was longer than most men his age, with a curl to the crisp whiteness of it. His brows were salt and pepper still, and his blue eyes simply dazzled. Clear and bright, they seemed to throw sparks at times. His mouth was classically handsome; chiseled and strong, bracketed by generous dimples, and even though he'd been on a plane for the past eight hours, he wore his rumpled pale suit with lazy masculine grace.

Sara smiled.

"Very pleased to meet you Doctor Munro," she intoned, holding out her hand. Simon took it in his much bigger, bonier one and held on to it.

"Call me Simon I insist! Pleased enough to have dinner with me?"

"Actually, you'll be having dinner with all of us," Sara gracefully extracted her fingers from his and shot Grissom a look. He was scowling slightly, but recovered enough to nod.

"We're all meeting up at the conference room with our department, the sheriff's office and the owners of the dig site, Simon. Not only is this case a political minefield, time is essential if what we suspect about the site is true."

"Always to the point," Simon sighed, shooting Sara a little gleam of regret. "But that was always one of your virtues, Grissom. All right, let me get my luggage and you can fill me in on anything that's come up since your last Email to me. Thank God it's Vegas since that means I won't have to fret about a check-in time at whatever hotel you've got me booked into. This way—" he strode off towards the baggage carrousel, leaving Grissom and Sara in the wake of his long stride. She shot a sideways glance to find one focused right back on her.

"Is he always so—direct?" she murmured. Grissom nodded with a sigh.

"Unlike a VCR, Simon doesn't have a pause button. Or subtlety."

"VCRs have subtlety?" Sara asked, puzzled. Grissom shook his head.

"No, of course not. I just thought that by now, Simon would—never mind. I'm sure his bark is worse than his bite."

But he didn't sound entirely convinced. Sara sped up a little; trying not to lose sight of their guest as he strode through the concourse, stride eating up the distance. They caught up to him in front of the carrousel, where he was hauling a pair of much battered cases from the parade of luggage now circling. Sara smoothly shifted to lift one, but Simon tut tutted.

"No. I can haul my own toothbrush and laundry, dear. My mother would be spinning in her grave if I let a woman carry something of mine in my presence."

"I think I could get used to this chivalry thing—" Sara murmured to Grissom, who had latched onto the other case and sighed a little. The three of them headed to the parking lot, walking and talking, with Grissom and Simon handling most of the conversation, which suited Sara just fine. She liked the side by side image of them as a study in contrasts: Grissom's steel grey curls to Simon's white hair, the stockier build of the entomologist to the lanky lines of the anthropologist. Here and there she caught snatches of the conversation that seemed to be centered on catching up.

" . . . Heard about the case in Peoria and I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Gil. Once the bones become a cultural issue I know my part of it's done. I just wish I'd had more time with some of the carbon sampling before they re-interred them—fascinating stuff you know. More Teri's line than mine, but I hear she's settled down."

"Yes. Got married a few years back." Grissom replied shortly. Simon shot him a look and laughed.

"Just as well, Gil. We both know she wanted tenure at the university. She never made a secret of that. Besides, not everyone's cut out for consultation work."

"Seems to suit you," Grissom pointed out dryly, making Simon chuckle.

"Only because I'm on my own. Give me a good woman, I'd be happy to pass up the itinerant life too." They'd reached the front of the airport, passing through the glass doors, and Grissom hesitated, setting the suitcase down on the curb.

"Let me bring the car around so we don't have to hike all the way to the day lot," he finally decided, casting a quick glance at Sara. She shrugged.

"I could do it, if you want."

"No that's fine—" Grissom replied, fishing in his jacket pocket for his keys and stepping off the curb. Simon watched him go in silence for a moment, then sighed, letting one long hand rub his face.

"There goes one sadly conflicted man," he intoned softly. Startled, Sara looked up at him, wondering how to ask what he'd meant by that, but Simon merely shook his head.

"Not a word, Miss Sidle—he's a private one too, as you probably know. Instead, let's you and I speak of something much lighter. What's a lovely drink of cool water like you doing out here in the desert?" Simon asked saucily.

By the time Grissom had pulled the Denali up, Sara had already given Simon the rundown on her education and career up to the current day, and was embarrassed to find herself caught up in conversation centering on herself. Grissom listened for a moment as she wound down, then motioned with his head towards the car.

"So what you're saying is that our perp, or perps probably knew this was an ancient burial site, and used the presence of other, older remains to hide these victims," Brass sighed. Around the conference table, the rest of the group looked from him to Simon, who was twiddling with a pencil and studying it with great interest.

"It seems likely, Jim. Certainly the co-incidence of burying remains in an area already seeded with others is hardly a random act. Further, from the layout of the bones, it seems to me that your perpetrators had some INTENTION of misleading us by mingling the remains and making identification that much harder and time consuming."

"Great, so we have someone with a plan," Warrick sighed from the other side of the table.

"A plan and a working knowledge of the area," Grissom pointed out softly. "Considering what we've uncovered from the area, there are enough bones here to reconstruct at least ten people at least, and the fact that no one's ever made a suspicious report of anything in this locale would lead us to believe that these killings have taken place over an extended length of time."

"I agree—" Simon sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Although at least one of the skeletons is authentically Shoshone or Paiute." He gently set an arrowhead on the table. "Dug that out of a thigh bone."

"Whoa. So we've got the added headache of cultural sensitivity too," Catherine murmured under her breath, but still loudly enough to be heard and nodded to. Brass winced a little.

"Peachy dandy. Well I guess that means that moving the bones is our priority along with processing the scene."

"I have a suggestion," Simon broke in softly. He looked at Grissom and receiving his nod, began. "We need to do part of the work on-site and part of it here in the lab. Instead of tying up all your CSIs on the skeletons, give me one, and let me have some cadets to do the grunt work. That way you've got most of your teams capable to work on the other evidence you're going to find, and still have them to cover the shift."

Grissom frowned and nodded, his eyes passing over the members of his team thoughtfully. Nick looked eager, Catherine ambitious. Warrick's expression was slightly grim, and Sara . . . Sara looked back at him, brown eyes as bright and amused as a puppy's. When Grissom turned his gaze back to Simon, he had the uncomfortable feeling the older man was suppressing a laugh, even though outwardly his face was still and slightly somber.

"You pick one," Grissom announced lightly, tossing the decision back at him. A long moment lingered, and finally with a soft chuckle and a flash of white teeth,

"Simon says . . . Sara."

Even knowing it was coming didn't make it any easier, and Grissom fought the urge to frown even as everyone else grinned. Of course, logically, Simon would choose her—Sara was the only one he'd met.

Instead Grissom shrugged, not looking in her direction and murmured "Fine. Sara it is. We've got three of the skulls in the morgue and three others still in transit, so that's as good a place for you two to start as any. Warrick, you, Nick and I will start combing the site for other evidence—Catherine, you and Greg start arranging for soil sampling to see if there's anything more besides blood in that dirt."

The tone of dismissal in his voice roused them, and in twos and threes the people on Grissom's side of the table began to get up. Brass looked to the sheriff, who looked sour but resigned. He nodded and rose himself, muttering something about having to meet with representatives of the Vegas Tribal Councils, and like that, everyone headed off to their assigned tasks in neat and organized groups.

Sara followed Simon down the hall to the morgue, not asking any questions, which seemed to suit both of them just fine. He held the swinging doors for her, then followed her in, not bothering with a smock, although Sara pulled one off the shelf and draped herself in it. Instead, Simon swung his leather case up onto one of the instrument trays and undid the latches, letting it fall open. Five tools gleamed in the harsh light of the morgue, neatly clipped into loops or pockets that held them upright. Simon looked at her and waved a hand at them.

"Anthropometer, sliding caliper, Boley gauge, measuring tape, spreading caliper—tried and true, well-traveled and well used. If you'd unpack them for me, I'll take a moment to eyeball these skulls."

Carefully, Sara laid the tools out, smiling to herself as she did so. Simon looked over at the tray table that held three dirt-stained skulls. He picked one up in his long bony hands, holding it carefully, checking the sockets and plates, staring at the teeth of the upper jaw for a long moment before setting it down again. He did the same for the other three, and Sara waited until he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I suppose your coroner has his transcription software and his fancier set-ups, but we'll go with pen and paper for the moment. Inside pocket of the case—"

Sara deftly unpacked them and stood waiting, watching as Simon looked back at her. She was surprised to see an expression of almost tenderness in his gaze, even more so when she realized it was nearly identical to one she occasionally saw in Grissom's eyes.

"Something wrong?" she blurted. He shook his head, then turned to the table and picked up the first skull again, and the sharpie marker. In very tiny letters, he wrote something on the underside of the occipital bone.

"Skull number one. Now, Miss Sara, this is off the record here, but from the general size and shape, I estimate this to be the skull of a young woman, between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two. The flattened frontal bones and general shape of the zygomatic arches indicate possible Central or South American origins." He turned the skull upside down and peered into it. "Given the lack of molar eruption in the upper jaw, she was probably on the younger side of that age estimate. There's a fair amount of dirt that has stained the plates, so that tells me it's a recent burial, probably within the last six months to two years."

Sara stared at the skull, fascinated, and a little sickened.

"So you're saying this is probably a missing girl, high school or college student age."

"Yes. Probably of Latino or Indian extraction, but again, that's just a hypothesis. Now, we get official and start taking measurements. First, the circumference of the cranium—"

Simon took her step-by-step through the measuring process, patiently showing her how to work each caliper and write the results down. Sara picked it up easily, and Simon could see that Grissom's opinion of the woman's intellect was well-founded. By the time they were through with the skulls, dawn had already passed, and Sara was startled by the sound of her stomach growling. It was embarrassingly loud in the quiet morgue, and Simon laughed at her pink, perplexed face.

"We must eat sometime, Sara—part of what separates us from the other bodies around here. Tell you what—it's your town, you pick the place, I'll foot the bill."

"You don't have to do that," she protested, a little touched by his courtliness. Simon shook his head and slowly packed up the tools.

"Of course not, but it's part of something I have a mind to set into motion, dear. Ever hear the motto of New Orleans?"

"Um . . . no."

"Laissez le bon temps rouler—" he rolled out in a lovely fashion, smiling as he did so. Sara waited a beat and he added, "Let the good times roll. Not a bad motto for life, I think."

Sara looked at him, catching a hint again of that curiously sweet gaze, and some lonely impulse deep within her responded. She nodded, standing up and stretching.

"You're on then. Are you in a breakfast mood or a dinner mood?"

"Let's start with dinner, Sara, and work our way to breakfast—" Simon told her with a hint of suggestiveness. She laughed, all the way until the moment she looked over his shoulder to see Grissom standing there, not smiling.

Not smiling at all.

Simon caught Sara's change of expression and turned, looking at Grissom. He rubbed the back of his neck and waited a beat.

"Joining us, Gil? I have a hankering for waffles at the moment, smothered with jam."

"Sounds good," came his quiet voice, and Sara wondered why such a normal reply sounded so--abnormal.

Grissom fought the urge to grit his teeth as he rummaged in his locker and tried to sort out the jumble of thoughts running through his head. The pleasure of catching up with Simon was being tainted by the man's interest in Sara. Grissom scowled, wishing he'd warned her, told her a bit about Simon's reputation as a ladies man, but in the rush of getting the expert hired and brought to Vegas, little details like that tended to get lost in the momentum.

He fished out his jacket and tugged it on impatiently. The man was seventy for God's sake! Far too old to be shopping for wife number five, and yet from the look of things it was clear Simon was doing just that, even if Sara wasn't aware of the man's agenda. Grissom slammed the locker shut and took a breath, trying to shake off the sense of the absurd.

No. He was tired and imagining things—a far more likely scenario. Ever since urging Sara to seek counseling he'd felt a stronger feeling of protectiveness towards her, a feeling that gave him a sense of relief. He could be close to her again now, with good reason. She was responding, opening up to him again. It was getting better, damn it—

Wasn't it?

He glanced at himself in the locker room mirror, wincing a little at the glare of his expression and tried to soften it. The resulting expression was worse, a sort of hangdog half grin that looked utterly stupid. With a sigh, Grissom shook his head and pushed open the door, checking his watch.

He caught up with Simon and Sara outside the lab's main doors; they were chatting about something, and Simon had one of the marigolds from the front walkway up under Sara's chin.

" . . . Not very scientific," she was telling him with a crooked grin. Simon twirled the flower by the stem and cocked his head.

"Of course not. It's just a lovely excuse to get close to someone." He handed her the flower, and immediately Sara stepped up to Grissom, holding the thing out. He looked down at it, and she shook her head.

"It's a test to see if you like butter, Grissom. If there's a reflection under your chin, you do."

"I've got a beard, Sara—" he pointed out helplessly, noticing for the thousandth time how rich a brown her lovely eyes were, particularly when she smiled. Sighing, Sara tucked the flower behind one ear, then turned away from him, and Grissom felt a sense of disappointment in himself.

"I guess the only way to see if Grissom likes butter would be through direct observation when we eat then," she commented with a forced lightness. Simon shot Grissom a mild look and nodded.

"So—where are we going and how are we getting there?"

"Waffle World, on Gold Dust just south of the Mirage," Sara spoke up confidently. "Warrick and Nick took me there my first year here and it's absolutely the best place for waffles. They're HUGE, like air mattresses."

"Air mattresses?" Grissom questioned, making Sara's face go slightly pink. She nodded as Simon laughed softly.

"Oh by all means then, sounds like just the place. Who's driving?"

Grissom volunteered quickly and the loaded up into the Denali, Sara next to him in the front seat, Simon in the back. The two of them were discussing some case of his from a few years back, and since she was so preoccupied, Grissom indulged in a little peripheral scrutiny of her profile. Just a quick little peek.

High forehead, sharp nose, amazingly mobile mouth. He didn't dwell on those full lips too long, knowing if he did this line of thoughts would swirl into places he didn't dare go in the light of day. Long throat; defiantly perky chest--yet another erotic danger zone that he skittered over quickly; long, flat 'lick-chocolate-off-of-me" stomach, sweet lean hips that would fit right into the palms of his hands . . .

Appalled at himself, Grissom shook his head hard, trying to dislodge these highly inappropriate thoughts, as if a good waggle would make them fall out of his ears. He should NOT be thinking this way. These images were completely improper, totally unprofessional and ridiculous to boot. Sara was his colleague. His younger, beautiful, highly desirable coworker—

"Grissom are you okay?" she was giving him a worried look, and he realized the car was now silent, conversation having died at his wet dog shaking off act. He pursed his mouth, not meeting her gaze.

"Fine. Had something in my ear," he lied, checking the rear view mirror. Simon had the nerve to be smirking slightly.

"Mind it wasn't a chunk of your brain, Gil. That was a pretty hard shake."

"I'm FINE," Grissom repeated, glad that they were pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant. He let the cold morning air cool his face, and then led the way into the place.

"Table for three, please," he told the waitress at the front seating station. The little blonde girl smiled at him and scooped up three laminated menus. They made a happy little parade into the dining room and the blonde settled them into a tiny rounded booth, with Sara in the middle.

Naturally.

Grissom drew in a breath, tried not to consider the warmth of her thigh almost against his, and picked up the menu. On the other side, Simon was dazzling the waitress into drinks.

"Pineapple juice for the lady, a large one, and I'll have tomato juice---Gil?"

"Coffee." It seemed safer to speak in monosyllables at the moment, and he studied the menu, trying to find something that didn't look like a heart attack on a plate. As he debated between the short stack of blueberry pancakes and the yolkless scrambled eggs, Sara set her menu down and sighed.

"I want a Belgian waffle, but it's going to be huge, and I'll end up taking half of it home if I do."

"They keep well," Simon replied, amused. Sara shrugged.

"I'll feed it to the ducks at the park after my run tomorrow. That's what I did last time, and the time before that. I think they know me because they do come a'waddling when I show up."

"I have no doubt they know a soft heart when they see one," Simon replied. Grissom shook his head.

"Conditioning. They're acclimated to being fed," he muttered. Both Sara and Simon looked at him and he gave a shrug back. The waitress brought their drinks and Grissom sipped his coffee, wondering why he felt so awkward. It was breakfast with colleagues; nothing strange about that.

Except it was, somehow, and he resented the odd new tension that made his fingers long to drum on the tabletop. Sara was sipping her juice and smiling, not saying anything. Simon was watching him across the arc of the table, his blue eyes as keen as ever.

His phone rang. Grissom listened to the static, then excused himself and walked to the lobby, trying to figure out what Catherine was saying.

Simon watched Grissom go and looked at Sara. She met his gaze with a steady look, slightly skeptical but amused, and seeing it, Simon answered it with one of his own.

"Miss Sidle, your supervisor is a little annoyed with me."

"Yeah, I was getting that impression," Sara responded slowly. Simon leaned back and looked vaguely amused. He held out his left hand, which was still strong and lean despite the knobby knuckles and age spots on it.

"I will bet you a dollar that at some point tonight, after the two of you have dropped me off at my hotel, Gil is going to mention to you that I've been married four times."

He paused. Very softly Simon added, "It would please me tremendously if in response to that--you would merely smile at him."

Sara's mouth drew up into a quick, slightly confused grin, and seeing it, Simon arched an eyebrow at her.

"But—" she began, and he shook his head, cutting her question off as he laid his hand on hers very lightly.

"Just to humor an old man, would you do that much for me?"

For a moment she looked into his eyes, searching them for some trace of humor, but seeing none in the earnest blue depths. Sara gave a tiny nod. He patted her hand and squared his shoulders, then looked up as the waitress returned, bearing three large, steaming plates.

"Oh yes, you are a welcome sight, Miss!"

The waitress pinkened, and deftly dealt out the plates, topping off coffee and bouncing away as Grissom returned. Both Sara and Simon looked up at him.

"Come eat before your food gets cold, Gil. Sara and I started without you, but you'll forgive us, right?"

For a moment Grissom said nothing, then slid back into the booth, making Sara rise on the vinyl cushion as his weight settled down.

They ate, Simon steering the conversation through a tactful variety of topics, including Sara when he could. Gradually Grissom relaxed, and by the time most of the breakfast was gone, so was his vague anxiety. Simon was by turns funny and serious, but also quite focused on his food and the case, in that order.

Finally, as they wound down, sipping the last of the coffee, Sara was staring at her remaining waffle half with amused resignation. Simon followed her gaze to it and smiled, deep brackets around his handsome mouth.

"Largess for the waterfowl, Sara?"

"Yeah. I don't mind feeding it to them, I just—" she stopped for a moment, then went on, a little embarrassed, "—Feel a little silly every time I do. I mean it's a pretty high-class WAFFLE. Most people just feed them stale bread."

Simon laughed. It was a deep rumble, coming from his chest, a low powerful sound. Sara joined in, and even Grissom managed a chuckle. Simon reached over and took Sara's slim hand, raising it to his mouth in a quick, careless gesture, kissing it lightly.

"On behalf of the Las Vegas ducks, I thank you, Miss Sidle. Your continued efforts to raise the ambience around here are much appreciated," he drawled, exaggerating his New Orleans accent. Sara laughed again.

Grissom didn't.

He paid the bill, stiffly waving off Simon's attempts to do it, and silently trailed behind again as Sara carried her foil-wrapped waffle. The three of them climbed into the Denali, and Grissom headed the car down the Strip towards the Sirocco, not speaking. Not that either Sara or Simon seemed to notice, he realized in annoyance. They were talking about something to do with pastry, and New Orleans and before any of them realized it they were in the parking lot of the Sirocco.

Simon insisted on carrying his own bags. He leaned on the driver's side door and held Grissom's gaze a moment.

"All joshing aside, Gil, I'm truly honored to be asked on the case. Your instincts are good, and your team is better than any I could ask for. We'll find this monster, of that I have no doubt."

Grissom nodded, smiling faintly for the first time in a while.

"I know, Simon. Get some rest—Brass is making transportation arrangements for you, and someone will be here by four this afternoon. And yes—I'm also glad you're on this with me."

They shook hands, firmly. Grissom waited until a valet came out to take the bags from Simon, and then pulled out into traffic once more, heading back to the lab. The car was quiet, with an oddly expectant silence. Sara studied the foil waffle in her hands like it was the Rosetta stone. Grissom cleared his throat.

"Sara—" he began, "There's something you ought to know about Simon . . ."

She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing.


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

" . . . Sorting the obvious ones into various tables. Skulls on one, femurs and pelvises on another. I want someone at each bin clearly checking off each bone as it comes in, and another person giving it a preliminary DNA swabbing and cleaning. Take your time—these remains aren't going to disappear, and we want to do this right the FIRST time, boys."

The cadets, all ten of them, looked serious. Simon nodded, then waved at Sara standing next to him.

"Ms Sidle here is coordinating the information and samples between the field and the crime lab, so all evidence moving off-site goes through her first. Nothing, and I mean nothing, goes anywhere other than one of these tables or bins. You never know which bone might be the casebreaker, so be diligent and professional. Any questions?"

There were a few, mostly about bone identification, and after that the cadets moved to their stations inside the big tents, working industriously at the long tables. Sara glanced at the first one and with a pang of sorrow counted ten skulls of various sizes. Simon sighed, and carefully took his jacket off. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and glanced her way.

"Time to get to work, Sara dear—"

Side by side they measured and logged in each the skulls, writing down the statistics and building them up into potential profiles. A few hours later, Sara emailed the files to Quantico then took a bottled water from Simon gratefully. Outside the tent, night had fallen, and he gestured for her to follow him out.

The dig was huge now, with staked off areas and police barricades surrounding it. For so many officers and scientists, it was surprisingly quiet, and Sara appreciated how seriously everyone was taking the case. Simon led her over to an empty picnic table and climbed up on it. Overlapping lights from some of the work areas gave it a soft glow, and Sara was grateful for the chance to get off her feet. She sat down next to him stretching her legs a bit.

"So?"

"So?"

"So do I win a dollar or not?" Simon flashed a grin at her, his expression making it clear he already knew the answer. Sara fought the urge to smile back, but gave in and nodded.

"Yes you do. He did indeed mention your marriages." Sara paused and added, "I'm sorry for your losses."

Simon's face tightened for a moment; he looked down and murmured, "Thank you, but I never lost them. They only died, Sara."

A quiet moment passed between them, and he looked up into her compassionate gaze. She cocked her head, and he fished into his pocket, pulling out a wallet. The photos were well-worn along the edges, much loved.

"That's Hanna, my first. Married her right out of college in '54. She died of cancer in '62. Good woman, trained me about putting the toilet seat down among other things."

"Other things?" Sara's eyes twinkled. Simon looked to the sky.

"Never you mind, Sara. Secret things a man can only learn from his wife. Moving on, this is Ophelia. Met her on a dig in East Africa '65 and married her in a Zulu ceremony. Strong woman, lovely eyes, brave, brave soul. Died in childbirth six year later. We couldn't get to the field hospital in time."

"I'm so sorry—" Sara stammered, looking at the black and white photo of the short, dark woman standing next to Simon, smiling up at him. He gave a gentle smile, touching the photo.

"It's all right, my dear. We were together at the end, and our sons are everything best about their mother, trust me. And this is Amie, my one-time rival for department chairmanship at the University of Tennessee. We fought like cats and dogs all the way until I proposed to her during a committee meeting. She had it struck from the record, but said yes—" He grinned.

Sara glanced at the photo, noting the petite curviness of the woman. Simon sighed, taking it from her and glancing at it.

"A drunk driver swerved and forced her car off the road. We'd been married for almost twelve years. I miss the way she used to sing in the shower."

Sara bit her lips, trying to fight the welling sadness building up in her chest. Simon's words were so light, but full of quiet emotion, and she wasn't sure how to look at him. He lightly rubbed her shoulder.

"No tears, Sara. If anything, they've taught me courage. And this was Claire." The last photo was of an African American woman with long Rastafarian braids and a stunning smile.

"She didn't want anything to do with me, and I finally figured out why, but it didn't matter to me one damn bit. Married her even though we both knew it was just a matter of time. AIDS does take its toll."

"God, Simon—" Sara choked, not sure how to deal with any of it. He sighed heavily and patted her shoulder again, then let his arm slip around her.

"There is a reason for everything, Sara. You're every bit as bright as Gil says you are and then some. I've shown you my history here, so you know me better."

"It's—" she wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came out. Simon chuckled.

"--Sad? Only parts of it. I've had thirty-one years as a happily married man, and five children in that time. A lot of good years, Sara. A lot of love and laughter. I took chances and the reward for that was a richer life."

"—Yeah, I guess so," Sara reluctantly admitted. Simon laughed is deep rumbling laugh.

"It's important to live a life, Sara. To take chances. I suspect you know how to do that. And I suspect Gil . . . doesn't."

Sara pulled away from Simon, startled, but he merely winked at her and carefully put the photos away into his wallet again. She swallowed a moment, then began to climb off the table after him.

"Grissom takes chances—" She protested, weakly. Simon shot her an arch look, and slowly headed back into one of the tents, leaving her in the semidarkness.

"So we've got a grand total of thirteen intact skulls, fragments from about six others and an odd number of bones . . . " Grissom muttered, looking over the report printout in his hands. Sara nodded, pointing and drawing his attention to a line further down.

"So far. Simon has tentatively started sorting out those he suspects are part of the original burial site from the others, but there aren't as many. Only two so far are definitely Native American, and that's only because we've found artifacts within the bones themselves—the arrowhead, and a string of beads on another," Sara told him. Grissom nodded, setting the report down and taking a moment to look at her. She was leaning over his shoulder, looking a little pale but much more animated than he'd seen her look in a while. He paused.

"Not getting bored working with Simon yet? It's been a week—"

"Oh no! It's incredible—I'm picking up so much from him every time we even look at a bone! He's brilliant, and I can't believe how many cases he's been a part of," Sara gushed a little, her tone more enthusiastic than Grissom wanted to hear. He cocked his head and tried to smile but for the first time it was an effort.

"Yes, he's got quite a . . . reputation," Grissom replied, a little flatly. Sara looked at him, and for a moment her expression twisted a little.

"Grissom—I got the impression you two were close colleagues, that he's your friend. The way Simon talks about you seems to back that up."

"He is," came the quick, slightly flustered response. Sara picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk.

"Then what's the problem? He's charming and old-fashioned, but he knows his stuff like nobody's business, and if anyone's going to find out who these people were, it's him."

"Sara—" Grissom began patiently. It was hard to go on when she looked at him like that, eyes so velvety and bright in the soft light of the high intensity lamp. He sighed and stumbled on, "Simon Munro is very good what he does for a living, I have no problem with that. But he's also a bit of . . . a ladies man."

He felt his face flush; something that hadn't happened around Sara in a while, not since she'd asked him out oh so long ago, a memory he'd wanted to purge away and couldn't. Hindsight and regret dogged it every time it came to mind.

"A ladies man—" came her flat statement, softened by the tiny smirk on the corner of her lovely mouth. Grissom had an insane impulse to kiss it off of her, but merely nodded instead, and turned his gaze back to the report.

"Yes he does. Aside from having married four times, he's rarely been without female companionship as long as I've known him."

Uttering more would be gossiping, and Grissom reasoned to himself that merely stating facts would be enough for an astute woman like Sara.

She chuckled softly.

"So what are you saying here, exactly, Grissom? That you're worried Simon's going to seduce me away from the glamour of the nightshift in Vegas to go off with him to parts unknown?"

"Noooo . . . " he replied even as his pulse jumped and he fought the urge to nod. Sara set the pencil down and stood up, pulling herself out of the circle of light on his desk. Out of the shadows her voice came, soft and husky.

"You can always assign Nick or Greg to work with Simon—"

"No! Sara, I'm not worried, especially. I just wanted you to be aware that Simon can be a bit . . . flirtatious. It's just his way."

Why did that have to sound so—petulant? He wondered to himself as he looked up. Sara nodded.

"Yes. I don't mind." She walked towards the door, adding, "It's a nice change of pace."

Grissom watched her walk out, feeling a slow surge of misery work its way up his throat. His hands slid along the desktop, nudging the pencil that had been in her fingers, and slowly he caressed it, as if trying to absorb her touch from the thing.

A change of pace? Simon was working her as hard as anyone, hell harder since they were all on the clock, and yet Sara was smiling about it. Grissom concentrated, and a faint smile crossed his mouth as memories rose up. Early days—re-enactments and easy breakfasts and off-the-wall experiments—and a part of him suddenly understood the little element of those bygone days. The missing element.

He managed a wistful twist of his mouth.

Nick looked over a Warrick, and shook his head. The small scrap of material in the bindle was barely enough to pick up with tweezers, but it was one of the very few clues they'd been able to find from the site. Four days of intensive, hands and knees searching had turned up only three bindles of note, and this tiny rag was the largest thing they'd found so far. Carefully Nick laid it out, and snipped a miniscule portion for chemical analysis. Warrick leaned down on his forearms and studied the bit of cloth as it lay on the light table.

"The edges look burned. Not fire, more like acid."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too. Smells like dirt, but there's a sharper odor to it. Sulfuric? Hydrochloric maybe?"

"Possibly. We'll know more after we test it. Sara and Simon find any trace of chemicals on the bones?"

"Yeah, the preliminary report mentions some unusual stains, but everything's still getting processed," Nick griped a little, putting the snippet of cloth under a microscope. In the focus of the lens, a faint pattern came out, vaguely floral in design. Nick frowned.

"Fiber seems to be cotton, but not refined. Has a print to it, I guess—"

Warrick sauntered around the table and took a look at the slide; his frown matched Nick's.

"Definitely a print, nothing unusual or unique, still—I feel like I've seen this, or something like it before."

"Yeah, me too. Something . . . grandmother-like."

Warrick backed away from the eyepiece of the microscope and shot his partner a dubious, amused look. "Grandmother-like?"

Nick flushed a little, but held his grin, "Okay, laugh if you want to, but yeah, I stand by my comment. Grandmother-like. Nothing definite."

"I think the word is grandmother-LY. If there IS such a thing."

Both of them pondered that for a moment, then Warrick shook his head. Nick dropped the tiny section he'd cut off into a test tube and sealed it. Without looking up, he murmured, "So . . . about Sara . . ."

"What about Sara? You mean her and Simon?" Warrick scoffed, back at the microscope. The pause dragged on, and he finally glanced over at Nick, who was grinning.

"Hey, stranger things have happened, man—more common than you think: younger woman, older guy—"

"Nick, you've been sniffing fumes from the fingerprint chamber, man. Sara is not interested in an older guy." There was a pause; Warrick looked away, his expression bland. "At least, not THAT older guy."

Nick's grin widened and his eyes crinkled as he fought off a chuckle at that comment.

"Sharon Tualele, dead. Masao Tualele, dead. We have her prints on the knife, we have HIS prints on the knife. We have three wounds to his shoulder and upper back, one slash through her throat, and no buttons on his shirt, bruises behind her knees and no clear picture of what happened . . ." Grissom muttered to himself, examining the photos of the scene. It wasn't a new case—the Tualele double murder had happened a year ago, and although there was no doubt it had been a crime of mutual passion, the logistics of it bothered him. Periodically he pulled the photos out and went though the steps in his mind, trying to act it out. It was a mental distraction, the equivalent of solitaire, nothing more.

Sara wasn't due in for another seven minutes. Grissom knew she and Simon were out, some event Simon had talked her into, some perfectly innocent outing that she deserved and probably liked, an afternoon's escape from the heartbreaking work out at the bone yard, as most people around the lab were calling the site.

Something—fun.

"Downward stab angle, not possible for Sharon, at five foot three to inflict on Masao, six foot four . . ." he muttered, "Given the depth of penetration of the blade. Unless Sharon was on a chair or counter, but she'd only have time for ONE stab, not three—"

Six minutes. Grissom shifted his chair so it wouldn't seem as if he were watching the hall outside his office.

"And if she WAS on a counter, that doesn't explain why Masao didn't just leave, or turn around and knock her down. Buttons in a small scatter area near the stove, NOT all over the kitchen, so whatever struggle occurred was fairly controlled, but he wouldn't rip his OWN buttons off—"

Fun. It would be easy to have fun with Sara, Grissom mused. She probably bowled, and liked flea markets, and movies with impossible car chases, and she certainly fed ducks. For a moment he pictured her shredding a waffle and flinging pieces out into a pond, laughing at the mild chaos the food created among the waterfowl. He thought of trying to out throw her, of making a bet and deliberately losing just to have her laugh at him . . .

Two minutes.

"Bruises around the back of Sharon's knees and thighs . . . pressed against something? Finger shaped, but no sexual assault or rape. . Abuse? No, prints were the only marks on her, no history of battering . . .

And Simon. Certainly Simon would know about having fun. The man had charm by the boatload. Catherine thought he was debonair, Jacquie loved his faint accent; oh yes Simon could charm the pants off anyone.

That last thought made Grissom clench his teeth. Gripping the crime scene photos a bit harder, he rasped out to himself, "Crime of passion, but circumstances unclear—"

A soft clatter of footsteps made him look up and relief flushed through him, quickly chased by a hard pang of surprise. Sara gracefully swung through the doorway, clinging to the frame as she hummed, Simon standing just behind her shoulder, hands shoved in the pockets of his blazer.

Legs.

And pirates.

"—Buttercup darling am I!" Sara warbled in a slightly breathless voice, "Hey Grissom, they ran late and we TRIED to get out of the crowd, but it was insane! I can't believe how many people decided to go see the matinee along with us."

It was hard for him to reply, what with his tongue on the verge of hanging out. Sara in a skirt. Sara's legs on magnificent display under a short plaid skirt. Legs, for God's sake, long and sleek, ending in some sort of heeled loafers with buckles—legs---

"Did you have a nice time?" he asked, setting the photos down and taking a moment to calm his pulse rate. Sara nodded, coming to perch on the edge of his desk, unfairly bringing nylon covered temptation within arm's reach. Grissom sternly forced himself to look up into her face.

"Wellll, considering Gilbert and Sullivan isn't exactly my thing, and we were about a mile up in the wings, yeah. I had a great time."

"Sara is a natural contralto, and prone to humming her way through a libretto," Simon commented with a soft chuckle. Grissom forced himself to join in. He set the photos down, but Sara scooped them up, staring them over. Simon stared over her shoulder at them as well.

Grissom stared at Sara's curves, accentuated through a black sleeveless ribbed turtleneck and hoped he wouldn't end up having to breathe in a paper bag. That was not a work outfit. That was not a court outfit. No, that was a Sara having fun outfit, and clearly the fun was being had without HIM.

"That's an impressive angle," Sara muttered. Grissom glanced down guiltily, but Simon reached over and tapped the photo of the shoulder knife wound, his mouth pursed.

"Certainly. They must have been in a battle royale, locked in combat to both end up dead."

"It's not the what, but the how that I'm having trouble picturing," Grissom muttered, "Sharon was only five three, not nearly tall enough to do this."

Simon, laughed, shifting creakily towards the door, pausing only to turn his head back to speak.

"She would have been, if he had her up over his shoulder, Gil." With that he ambled off, leaving the two of them in the office.

A beat, a single pulse of energy filled the room.

Grissom rose up, his eyes bright, his concentration total and fierce. He turned to Sara.

"Of course. It fits." He handed her a marker as he spoke. "Downward strike, bruises---Sara, how much do you weigh? Still under a hundred and thirty?"

"Grissom, that's none of your bu—hey!"

He squatted slightly, strong arms wrapping around her thighs. Grissom lifted, picking her up off her feet, and Sara wobbled, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rose up into the air.

"Whoa! Grissom!" she yelped uncertainly, trying not to struggle, but definitely startled. He grunted a little, but locked his arms tighter around her legs, and spoke in a slightly breathless tone as he battled with a serious overload of sensory input. Warm, sweet armful of Sara . . .

"Sara, you've got a marker, stab me with it! We're fighting, I've picked you up and you've got a weapon—"

She glanced down at the top of his curly head now pressed against the left side of her ribcage and trembled a bit, then brought the pen down to hit his broad back. Grissom tipped his face up to look at her with excited impatience. Sara could see his nostrils flare a bit, could feel his grip tighten in such a way as to make her stomach do a happy, happy somersault deep within her.

"Okay, um, I stabbed you . . ." she pointed out, her hair falling down past her cheeks as he continued to look up at her. For a second Grissom just held her, then she watched him swallow and clear his throat.

"Stab me again, left shoulder, then again . . ." came his husky demand. She did, the Sharpie striking him each time. He shifted his grip, and Sara felt his fingers behind her knees just as one of her shoes fell off, clunking to the floor. Grissom took a step over it.

"So you've gotten the blade in three times, and I'm enraged now, furious but mortally wounded, trying to crush you but I'm not near your neck. I start to loosen my grip . . ."

Sara felt herself slide down the length of Grissom's frame, the press of their bodies shockingly warm as she rubbed against his torso. He was definitely . . . contoured. Sara gained an instant, up-close, highly personal appreciation of Grissom's physique as his loosened grip. Gravity tugged, but his arms around her relaxed with grudging reluctance; by the time Sara's feet touched the floor again, several interesting situations had developed.

Grissom's shirt was missing buttons; four of them had been scraped off in the full body press and now were rolling in small circles on the floor. Further, Sara felt a bit of a breeze backside now that her skirt was bunched up around her hips, crumpled there by Grissom's hands. Stunned, she looked into his astonished face.

" . . . And I cut your . . . throat . . . " he trailed off, caught in the moment, keenly aware of every THING about Sara: her scent, her warmth, her quick breathing, her wide charred mahogany eyes, dark and enticing . . .

Outside the office door, Simon checked his watch, smiling faintly. He then shifted himself off the frame and stepped back in, drawing an exaggerated sigh as he dropped his hands to his hips.

"Sara my dear, your slip is showing," he stage-whispered with mock courtesy, even though a great deal more than that was visible through Grissom's tightly clenching fingers.

With a mortified squawk, Sara wriggled away from Grissom and savagely smoothed her skirt down again, then lifted her chin up, striving hard for dignity that wasn't quite available at the moment. Grissom on the other hand looked like an astounded understudy for Ernest Hemingway as his damaged shirt hung open, along with his lower jaw.

Sara jammed her foot back into her shoe, not looking up.

"Interesting method of deduction, Gil," Simon added gently as he herded Sara out. "Must play havoc on your Workman's Comp at times. Come, Sara, we have pelvises to go before we sleep . . ."

He walked with her down the halls towards the front of the building, and with every step Sara shifted gears, moving faster until Simon was forced to extend his already considerable stride to compensate. Outside the doors, she turned on him; face still red, but expression flinty.

"Okay, what the hell was THAT all about, and don't tell me you don't know, Simon. Save the courtly gentleman act for Catherine and level with me."

Simon cocked his head and looked at her, then drew a long slow breath. He gestured to her car, and Sara followed him to it, climbing in the driver's seat as he took the passenger one and buckled up. They turned out of the parking lot before he broke into a deep chuckle.

"Oh I knew this Dies Irae would come, sooner or later, but I expected it from Gil since he knows me better."

"Start talking, Simon."

"Very well, Sara Sidle. In the course of the last two weeks, I have been making some recalibrations on an unbalanced equation that's been bothering me for some time. The middle of this equation should have a plus sign, but that symbol is sadly missing, with the two elements standing without true purpose in their function."

Sara shot him a glare before turning her gaze back to the road. "Can we can skip the algebraic metaphor and get to the point? I'm running out of patience."

"As am I, Sara, but very well," Simon agreed, sliding his long hands over his bony knees. "Gil first commented on you to me in an Email almost three years ago. I'd known him for almost a decade, and since this was the first time he'd ever mentioned a woman to me in glowing terms I was pleased for him. Grissom's always been a very private man, but a good one, and I had always hoped he'd find someone special."

"And?" Sara prompted, a little less belligerently. She was listening, and trying not to let her focus stray from his words back to the sensual memory of Grissom's arms around her. His hands on her backside. The car headed for the tents of the crime scene as the streetlights came along the development road and Simon frowned a little.

"And I heard about you in each subsequent note. Nothing particularly personal mind you, just comments about current cases, or experiments, but it was enough for me to know he'd developed more than just a professional interest in you. My polite inquiries about yourself were for the most part ignored, and I let it pass—at times I suspect trying to pry information out of Gil Grissom requires a court order or a mafia enforcer."

Sara tried not to grin at his imagery and aggrieved tone; Simon gave her a long-suffering look and continued.

"Nevertheless, when he called me out over the matter of the bones, I was delighted that a side benefit to the trip would be a chance to finally meet the esteemed Ms. Sidle."

"Ah." Sara muttered after a quiet little pause. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You didn't, Sara," Simon replied softly, "Gil did."

"Excuse me?"

"Dear, in one of my bags lies a bottle of 1996 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac that I intended to hand to you both as a gift. Considering that the occasion for which it was intended has not yet arrived, I am loathe to let matters stand as they are. Therefore, it occurred to me that perhaps a little judicious action on my part could speed things along."

Sara's grip on the steering wheel tightened so hard that her slender fingers looked like bones. Very slowly, she kept her vision straight ahead as she spoke in a measured monotone as they pulled up into the dirt parking area behind the tents.

"So based on a few Emails and your own erroneous assumptions, you thought you'd take it on yourself to play matchmaker for me and Grissom." Sara gave a quick bark of a laugh, tinged with disbelief and disappointment, "I don't believe your audacity, Doctor Munro. Did it ever dawn on you that Grissom and I . . . aren't? You know. THAT way?" She choked slightly. Next to her, Simon snorted and shook his head.

"No. The moment I introduced myself to you Gil Grissom's hackles went up as clearly and quickly as a guard dog on his home turf. I don't think he was aware of it at the time, but there you have it. The man's besotted, and anyone with half a brain can see it, Sara. Even your colleagues are aware of the situation."

Sara shot Simon a panicky look; he reached over and unhooked her seatbelt, smiling mildly at her.

"No. There is no situation, Simon. Grissom and I are nothing more than co-workers in a professional capacity. He's my supervisor and I'm his . . ."

"--Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Sara. So because Grissom is smitten, but apparently unable to, as the vernacular goes, get in touch with his feelings, I decided the best way to move him forward would be through the time-honored tradition of jealousy. Granted, I'm not the rival I once might have been, but my track record speaks for itself, a record that Gil is aware of."

Sara's eyes widened, and her pretty mouth moved, but no words came out; Simon smiled at her impishly and climbed out of the car. By the time he was in the tent, Sara was after him at full steam.

"How DARE you!?" She fumed, moving to the table of pelvises and donning latex gloves in angry, jerky motions. Simon had already begun rolling up his sleeves in his methodical way, his gaze sweeping over the table.

"I dare because I'm right, Sara dear. I dare because I'm an old man with a last few chances to help the living--" He held up one of the cracked bones, caressing it lightly, "--Instead of the dead. Consider it—I do good work here. I bring closure and justice and peace to families. But I look at the skeletons sometimes and wish that someone had helped these people before they were nothing more than pitiful remains in my fingers."

Sara bit her lip, keeping her anger in check as she watched his face tense up; Simon raised his eyes to meet hers and they gleamed.

"What was it Shakespeare wrote? The good is often interred with the bones . . . Sara, forgive me my presumption, but it seems to me that an opportunity to make two good people happy while they're each above ground has some nobility to it. I've laid four wives into the earth, and will probably join them within a few years, but I at least had the courage to love."

He held the bone out to her. "Tell me now that you'd rather live with regret than love, and I'll stop."

"Simon—" she muttered softly, taking the bone from him, looking at it to keep herself from meeting his blue gaze, "It's not that easy. If it was, don't you think something would have happened by now? But we're talking about Grissom here. He's—complex. Unknowable sometimes. Frustrating and brilliant and just very . . . Grissom."

Simon shifted closer and laughed, a deep rumble as he looked up to the top of the tent. Sara felt some deep knot in her chest begin to loosen, and she carefully set the bone down again.

"Dear God, Sara, if Grissom wasn't in the picture I would DEFINITELY court you in all seriousness! The man needs a proverbial wake up call—and I think your re-enactment clinch probably jumpstarted matters quite nicely. I didn't plan that, but I do believe it'll be on his mind and libido for a while."

Sara blushed in a hot wave of humiliation at the reminder, and averted her face to keep from making it worse. Simon passed her a clean toothbrush from the bin of them at the end of the table. She took it with more force than needed, but he smiled and whistled a few bars of _Modern Major General_ ; Sara gradually smiled as began gently cleaning the upper edge of the pelvic cradle in her hands.

The two of them worked for a while, moving in a busy tandem of cleaning and measuring as time passed. When Simon cleared his throat she looked up; he winked.

"I hope I'm back in your good graces, then?" he asked. Sara tried to frown but found she couldn't; at best a twisted grin crossed her lips.

"Simon, you are waaaay too old and distinguished to be playing Cupid, but yeah, I'm not angry with you anymore. Your intentions are good, if slightly skewed, and don't have a chance in hell of working, so—"

"I beg to differ," Simon broke in impatiently, "And all I ask is for a little . . . co-operation in this venture. Grissom's complacent and far too fond of the status quo. He adores you but in my opinion, he needs to know the threat of loss, Sara. Not death or departure, but loss to another man. And I would be delighted to be that man, my dear. The mere thought of me winning you over will either get Gil moving or give him ulcers—what do you say? Will you take a chance and see if we can't compel him?"

Simon's impish expression was back, lighting up his noble face and making his eyes sparkle. Sara thought of a thousand reasons to say no; serious, mature, sensible reasons to simply shake her head to refuse this insane, impossible scheme. Lots and lots of reasons---

She nodded, not trusting her voice.


	3. Chapter Three

Grissom mechanically fished his spare shirt out of his locker, his thoughts far beyond the realm of the mere physical action. At least physical action acceptable in mixed company in a public building during working hours. His palms were damp, his chest felt tight, and lower down his torso, in a zone he rarely let himself consciously think about, things were . . . tingly.

Because of Sara.

More specifically because of the impression of Sara up against him; that warm, good amazingly curvy animal weight that he could have carried for HOURS if given the chance.

Tingly.

Forty eight was too old to get—tingly-- about ANYTHING, let alone an inadvertent bodily encounter with a co-worker, he internally argued, vaguely aware that this line of thinking didn't make any sense. Roller coasters jolted his system, good crossword puzzles left him feeling satisfied; he'd felt strong emotions through many cases in his lengthy career but in this moment, looking into the metal coffin of his locker Grissom admitted to himself that Sara not only left him tingly, but also that—

It wasn't the first time.

It wasn't the only time.

He rapidly buttoned up his shirt and tucked the ends in with savage jabs, and drew in a deep breath. So. In a moment of pragmatic honesty he could face the fact that he was attracted to a younger subordinate, and calmly put that knowledge in a neat little compartment in his cerebellum—

Sara bellum.

Sara era bello. Sara ha avuto piedini che lunghi bei ha desiderato toccare e baciare nel calore di passione, he dizzily thought to himself, wondering why his dry conversations in Italian 101 never covered anything as wonderful as a woman's legs. The realization that he was now lusting _in another language_ made him drop his forehead onto the cool metal for a long moment.

"Grissom?"

Startled out of his self-pity, he looked up to see Greg eyeing him curiously. Grissom straightened up and shot the younger man an impatient look. Greg waved a file defensively.

"Catherine and I have an initial chem analysis of the soil from the Bone Yard site. We've got the expected organic breakdown, expedited by copious amounts of sulfuric and hydrochloric acids. The concentrations are diluted, but that could be because of groundwater, rain and digging. Mia's averaging several samples from various parts of the site for any DNA now, and I'm giving her a hand with the bone scrapings. Thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you Greg," Grissom fought not to sigh as his thoughts returned to the case. "We may have another Haigh on our hands."

"Haigh?" Greg asked when Grissom took the file from him and scanned it.

"In 1949 a British murderer named John George Haigh killed nine people and dissolved their bodies in acid, mistakenly thinking he couldn't be charged if there were no corpses," he murmured, looking over the pages in his hand. Greg looked faintly green at this, but managed a sickly smile.

"Got convicted?" he asked. Grissom nodded.

"Haigh didn't understand the concept of circumstantial evidence in the absence of a corpse, and the police recovered enough of it to convict him. Gall stones, dentures and undissolved metatarsals if I remember it correctly."

"Kibble and bits," Greg replied, earning a sharp glance from Grissom, who handed him back the report.

"Focus, Greg. Find the concentration of the acids and once you have those, see who in the greater Las Vegas area might have access to, or storage for it in quantities large enough to dispose of bodies."

Sighing, Greg spun on his heel and headed out as Grissom drew in a breath, stepping away from his Italian-tinged daydreams and back to reality.

-O-O-

"I'm telling you, there's got to be something more. This guy can't have covered ALL his tracks, it's just not possible," Catherine commented, flipping through the stack of reports. She looked across the table at Warrick and Nick, both of whom looked remarkable glum. Warrick sighed and crossed his long arms over his chest, a cynical frown on his face.

"Well so far we've come up are the traces of acid, that little scrap of cloth, and nothing else of note. The field was bought and paid for ten years back and was zoned for commercial use about two years ago. Associates of Sam Braun had their plans for a Russian-themed casino, The Moscow, approved six months ago . . . so far everything legit, boring and ultimately, useless. And I'm starving—" Warrick finished glumly. Catherine briefly smiled at that last remark and checked her watch while Nick did the same.

"We could take a break, send out for some food—Chinese? Mexican?"

"Oh yeah, Mexican sounds great. I've got a hankering for one of El Rosale's big burritos with extra cheese and refried beans—" Warrick murmured, with a soft groan of anticipation. Nick stiffened.

"Beans! That's IT!" He looked from Warrick to Catherine. They looked blank. Nick got up, moving, pacing around the break room table, concentrating hard, his words coming fast and furiously.

"Mexicale Rose brand pinto beans! Man, back in Texas just about every little corner market had them. You could get a five pound sack of dried pinto beans for about three bucks, but my point is, they come in cotton sacks, okay? Cotton sacks with floral prints on them. Pink, blue, all sorts. My grandmother used them for curtains in the laundry room. The scrap we found is part of a bean sack, I'm sure of it!"

Everyone paused after this little outburst, considering it.

"Okay, but why would a bean sack be in the grave?" Warrick demanded, a little wary of his pacing partner. Catherine looked wistful as she leaned back in her chair.

"Because it wasn't a sack, it was probably a blouse, or a skirt. Think of it. A commodity like that is bought by a certain percentage of the population. The percentage who count every penny or peso. The sort who make their own clothes and use bean sacks because the cloth's got a nice pattern on it, and it's easy to recycle. Easy to replace when you're always in an area with little corner markets."

"Spanish-speaking markets?" Warrick commented softly. Catherine nodded.

"Simon indicated that the bone structure of a few of the skulls indicated a South American origin. If that's so, then we're looking at Latino victims. We've got over a dozen unreported bodies, so it looks to me like someone's possibly picking off--illegal immigrants."

"Yeah, but who? How? Why?" Nick shot back, shaking his head. Catherine bit her lips.

"Still working on those. Let's go buy some beans, guys, and see if we can do some acid tests."

-O-O-

In the autopsy bay, Simon carefully set the last of the dark grey bones onto the blanket. He squared his shoulders a little, reaching up to rub an ache on the back of his neck, but Sara beat him to it and pressed long fingers just right. Simon sighed.

"Lovely my dear, just lovely. Well, it's safe to say that these remains are NOT recent victims. Our six young men here all died from blows to the head. The conformity of the injuries is fairly consistent—if I were to venture a guess, I would say they'd been executed by killing blows delivered to the occipital and parietal bones here in the back of the skull."

"Efficient," Sara observed quietly, looking at the clutter of skeleton on the green blanket. Simon nodded as his long fingers touched the edge of the blanket.

"They died between one hundred and sixty to one hundred and seventy years ago, Sara. Fifty years after the American Revolution, but forty years before the Civil War. Young men, barely out of their teens, but probably warriors already. We'll never know if they were prisoners in some tribal dispute, or tried and convicted of some crime, or if they were a sacrifice of some sort, but their grave has been desecrated, and their rest disturbed by someone out there who knew where they were . . ."

Simon swayed a bit, his complexion going pale; quickly he fished in his vest pocket for a slender silver tube and unscrewed it, popping a tiny white pill under his tongue. Alarmed, Sara slipped an arm around his shoulders and stared up into his face; he shook his head and offered a mild smile.

"Simon—"

"I'm fine, Sara, truly—" he assured her, his voice slightly raspy. "A little nitro and I'll be as good as new."

"Are you—sure?"

"Very," he replied, his smile softening at her obvious concern. His own arm slipped around her and he gave her a quick hug in return; the strength of it comforted Sara in ways his words hadn't. She managed a smile and stroked his back.

"So, we have the original skeletons separated from the others—what now?"

"Now it's a matter for your sheriff to bring together the tribal councils of the area and return the remains to them to be re-buried with all appropriate ceremonies. Morally it's the correct thing to do, and politically—" Simon made a moue of distaste, "—It's very good public relations for everyone involved."

Sara winced at his dry tone. Simon squeezed her shoulders once more, adding, "For the life of me, Sara dear, I can't abide the media nonsense that accompanies this sort of thing. If I had my way the bones would be laid quietly to rest with the ceremony a private matter. But, the way of the world doesn't account for that sort of dignity much anymore. Thank goodness my own arrangements are already taken care of."

"Simon! I don't think I like you talking like this—" Sara protested, shooting him an anxious little glance. He arched an eyebrow at her and began to fold up the blanket over the bones with slow and reverent gestures.

"Pffft, child. It's only a body, and a pretty old one at that. The most exciting thing about my bones is a new plastic hip and some old healed breaks along my ulna—hardly remarkable. No, I'm leaving myself to my alma mater's forensic anthropology center in hopes of helping them even after I go."

"You're willing yourself to the Body Farm?" Sara asked, both appalled and delighted. Simon nodded, waving a hand on the air towards vistas unseen.

"Absolutely! I'm hoping for a nice spot under one of the big oaks, or maybe down by the creek—it would be wonderful to pass on the sunscreen for once—"

Sara was still laughing as Grissom came in. His glance took in Simon's other arm still around her, and before letting go Simon squeezed her one more time, then cleared his throat.

"Ah Gil, I wanted to let you know so you can tell the appropriate persons involved with this. These six remains are mostly likely Native American, all male, with signs of blunt force trauma to the back of their skulls."

"Execution?" Grissom wondered. Simon shrugged, gripping the edge of the table and leaning down over the blanket.

"Mostly likely—I can't picture any accident causing this sort of wound on six young men at the same time. Their timeline is somewhere between eighteen twenty and eighteen forty, so your historians might be able to better explain their demise. I was telling Sara that you have a perfect opportunity to play peacemaker among the various tribes in the area."

Grissom looked down at the blanket, a frown crossing his features; when he spoke his voice was low and slow.

"Playing politics doesn't interest me, Simon, you know that. I'll inform Brass and let him and Atwater do the Public Affairs stuff—I'm more interested in finding whoever murdered the other thirteen people in that field, because their timeline and timetable are probably still going."

His comment brought the focus back to the case and Sara moved closer, looking at Grissom.

"Well now that the original bodies have been taken out of the picture, what do we have left?" She asked him. Grissom splayed his hands out gently.

"Catherine, Nick and Warrick think the scrap of cloth they found is part of a bean sack, possibly clothing. They're trying to duplicate the acid burn to find the concentration most likely used by our killer. Greg's checking chemical suppliers and manufacturers in the area to see who's got acids in sufficient quantities to do this."

"A bean sack?" Simon questioned gently. Grissom nodded.

"Possible clothing. Fits with your profile of a few of the victims as of South American or Mexican origin."

"So now we're getting somewhere," Simon nodded. He checked his watch. "Sara, we have only an hour to go, so I suggest we finish up with wrapping the warriors here and sending their statistics to Quantico. On my way out this morning I found a flyer for the Henderson Beer Festival and we absolutely MUST go since I'm in the mood for a good oompha band these days. Saturday, around six then?"

"Uh . . . yeah, sure—" Sara floundered a little as ludicrous visions of Simon in lederhosen popped into her mind. She turned to Grissom, who looked decidedly put out, and flashed him a helpless grin.

"Mind if I tag along?" He asked firmly. Simon paused just enough to indicate his vague displeasure then dredged up a faint smile; if Sara hadn't known it was all an act she would have been nervous.

"Not at all, Gil. That would be—" Simon paused heavily, "—Just fine."

"Good. Sara and I will pick you up, then. Six o'clock—" Grissom moved to the double doors of the morgue, his stride almost cocky. Sara watched him go out, then looked up at Simon questioningly.

"Oh better and better! There's definitely a scent of testosterone in the air, my dear. I'm flattered Gil thinks me such a threat," Simon muttered with an air of satisfaction. Sara crossed her arms and glared a little.

"You know, the appeal of being fought over like a dinner bone is NOT one I'm really crazy about. I'm not a commodity here."

Simon shook his head even though there was a twinkle in his eye. He carefully folded the blanket once again, draping the edges over the bones.

"Of course not, Sara, and Gil knows that in his heart of hearts. Nevertheless, the possessive nature of the human male is well-documented, and in your supervisor's case, untouched until now. The only other suggestion I make is sartorial, if I may."

Her skeptical expression lent Sara an air of cuteness; she shifted her weight to one hip and nodded. Simon waggled his eyebrows.

"Skirt or dress, Sara my dear. Certainly the shorter the better. Not that I'm defending my sexist ways, but I'm fairly well versed in what will most likely turn young Gil's thoughts astray. And have you any preferred perfume?"

"Um—Emerald Fire, sometimes. Special occasions—"

"Lovely scent. DO wear it, as a favor to me, won't you?"

-O-O-

By the time Grissom found himself standing outside of Sara's apartment door at the end of that week, three things had already happened over the past three days to make him slightly nervous.

The first unexpected situation was that Atwater had actually given him, Gil Grissom, public credit for bringing in a specialist to work on the case. The media picked up on it, and Grissom found himself being congratulated by his coworkers, which bewildered and annoyed him slightly. For Grissom, the work was reward in itself, and the satisfaction lay in the job being well done, not well known.

The second thing was that Sara and Simon seemed to be inseparable, a situation that worked its way under his comfort level the way a shirt tag irritates at the back of the neck. They arrived together, took dinner breaks together, and generally appeared joined at the hip, much to the amusement of the night shift. No one dared make any comment in Grissom's presence except Catherine, who used her long-standing (and suffering) friendship to goad him a little.

"He's pretty slick, Gil. All that New Orleans charm--aren't you worried?" she'd asked him during a stroll to the trace lab where the acid experiments were taking place.

"Simon's thirty seven years older than she is, Catherine." He'd muttered back, like a mantra. She gave a wry little twist of her lips, waiting until they reached the lab door to comment,

"Hey, Anthony Quinn fathered two kids when he was in his eighties. Charlie Chaplin had one at seventy one. Age isn't always the deterrent you think it is."

Grissom had looked vaguely concerned for a moment, then shrugged, avoiding her eye as he moved to the other side of the table. Vats filled with various concentrations stood in neat labeled rows between them. Catherine continued, smiling to herself.

"Eric Clapton had a daughter at fifty seven; Tony Randall fathered two children when he was in his LATE seventies . . ."

"Since when did YOU become an expert on geriatric fatherhood?" Grissom had demanded with an edge to his tone.

Catherine had shot him an arch look that shifted to a maddening little grin. She didn't reply right away, preferring to measure out another four cc's of hydrochloric acid and add it to the second vat, then shot him a smug glance.

"You know, I like you better with blue eyes than green, Gil—"

But the thought, once verbalized and planted, wouldn't leave him alone. He kept trying to remind himself that Simon was a trusted friend, certainly not the sort of man to waltz off with Sara's heart in his back pocket, but the petty fear was still there, nibbling away at common sense and leaving him a little more irritable than usual. And it was while he was in this mood that he came across Greg blasting some sort of techno pop Zydeco music in the lab and that was the last straw.

With a deliberate sweep of his arm, Grissom knocked the CD player to the floor, ending the bouncy notes with a painful crashing squawk. Startled, Greg looked up into his supervisor's bland expression. Grissom got out his wallet and laid three twenties on the bookcase, then coughed slightly.

"Major suppliers of acid in the greater Las Vegas area?" he demanded firmly.

"Uuhh, Blue Star Fertilizer, A-Pro Chemicals and Messer Manufacturing," Greg mumbled, looking at the shattered remains of his boom box. Grissom nodded, waiting. Greg hastily handed over the files with the addresses in it, and then watched Grissom turn, walk out, pause and look back.

"Next time maybe you ought to go with something atonal, Greg—"

It had been petty, but it had felt so good.

And now, he stood awkwardly in front of Sara's door, unsure whether to knock or ring the bell, and wondering what he was proving exactly by being there. Grissom glanced down at himself, feeling slightly anxious: black pullover, suede leather jacket, black slacks. He hadn't worn any of them much and now he felt a nervousness he hadn't anticipated earlier when dressing.

They were going out clothes.

He steeled himself and reached up to the buzzer, pressing it with his thumb and stepping back, waiting, feeling a ghostly flashback through other long-past moments of front porch anxiety. The seconds dragged by and he risked drawing in a breath, wondering if this bizarre sense of date-a-vu would die away once he saw Sara.

Inside, Sara was circling her coffee table like a great white around a pier as she clutched her cell phone and tried not to squeak.

"He's HERE, Simon—" came her near whisper. On the other end of the line came a chuckle.

"Early of course. Gil never could abide tardiness."

"Okay, so you know his habits, but this kind of uncharted territory for me."

"You'll do fine. Follow my lead, no matter how odd and leave everything to me, Sara dear. When it comes to the male animal, I think I have a few years of insight. Don't let him in, just pop on out and get him moving. I'll see the two of you very soon."

Sara flicked the cell phone closed and sighed. Reaching for her jacket, she scooped up her purse and yanked open the door, staring out at Grissom, who looked startled to be under such sudden scrutiny.

They stared at each other for a charged moment.

"Hi."

"Hi—"

Sara marched out, sweeping past him and tugging the door shut behind her, cutting off all view of her apartment. Pasting a brave smile on, she shifted her weight a little and blinked at him, waiting. Unfortunately, Grissom was too caught up in looking at her to catch her impatience because once again she was stunning.

Sara wore a dress of some clingy jersey material, a shade of dark green that made her skin glow like the translucent pink insides of a sea shell. The neckline scooped, and had a long row of black shiny buttons in loops that trailed down her torso, sending Grissom into an immediate fantasy of undoing each one slowly. With his teeth. The dress ended at mid-thigh, and the black stockings that encased her lovely legs only heightened her demure sensuality. She wore the same buckled, heeled loafers of before, adding a note of prim kink that gave Grissom a quick pang somewhere under his stomach. Over one arm she'd draped a fluffy knit cashmere sweater coat, and around her slender throat was a wide black ribbon with a small cameo set in it.

"Grissom?" she called. Guiltily he blinked, pushing his glasses up and stepped towards her, his mouth unsure if it wanted to smile or frown.

"You look . . . nice."

Sara's eyebrow went up and he flushed, realizing the implied insult in his words immediately. "Exceptionally nice," Grissom amended.

That seemed to take the sting out; Sara's mouth twisted in a familiar smirk and she made a point of giving him the once over as well. He felt the heat in his face warm all the way to his ears as she gave an approving nod.

"You do too. I wasn't sure how formal a beer fest is, but I guess we'll find out, huh?" she replied, biting her lip quickly to stop babbling. Turning away, Sara desperately led the way down the hall to the stairwell, hoping she hadn't sounded as much like an idiot as she felt. Grissom trailed slightly behind, his own steps swift and loud after her.

The car ride was painful. Sara tried to think of something to say, but nothing pertinent came to mind. They'd already discussed the case, and Grissom only grunted when she'd congratulated him on his mention on the local news. Commenting on the weather was stupid in her opinion, and nothing outside the windows as they drove on seemed worth bringing up. In desperation, she cleared her throat and he flashed her a brief glance.

"Um, Grissom I mean to ask—how did you meet Simon in the first place?"

His shoulders relaxed a little and a faint grin crossed his mouth. He sighed.

"I was in one of his seminars almost twenty years ago. He'd just come back from grueling case with the Dallas police department and I was invited to help him organize his notes on it. I was one of five students he had at that time, and we got pretty close. He had the group over for dinner a lot. Teri Miller and I were the only ones to earn A's when the semester ended. When I worked in L.A. after that, Simon was on retainer so I saw him about every six months or so. We've kept in touch ever since, and he's referred me for entomological consultations periodically."

"Ah," Sara nodded sagely. She refrained from commenting on the familiarity of the mentor/student relationship and instead folded her hands on her lap.

"He—" Grissom hesitated, then plunged on, "--Always remembered my birthday, which is a little unusual I suppose. He's very detail-oriented."

That statement hung in the air, but Sara couldn't figure out if it was a compliment or complaint. Before she could decide which it was, they were pulling into the Sirocco parking lot. Simon strode out through the glass doors of the lobby, beaming.

"Gil, Sara, you look wonderful—nice to see some standards are being kept."

Relieved to see his quick wink, Sara watched Simon climb into the back and buckle his seatbelt. Grissom gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, a bemused expression on his face. Simon settled back, sighing happily. He looked as elegant as ever in a grey suit and tweed vest.

"Onward Gil—I have money riding on this evening and I'm going to collect it easily," he gloated.

"Money?" Grissom rose to the bait lightly, pulling into traffic and glancing in the rearview mirror at Simon. He received a broad grin in return; Simon was in rare form, looking both sly and innocent.

"Oh yes. A wager with lovely Sara about YOU of course. One hundred dollars are riding between us on our contention, Gil, and I'm sure you won't let me down."

Sara said nothing; this mysterious bet was news to her as well, but she tried to look all-knowing and slightly smug. Grissom arched an eyebrow and risked a quick look both at her and at Simon.

"A bet about what, precisely?" he demanded. Simon drew the pause out as skillfully as a surgeon; finally he gave a chuckle.

"Just a small thing, really. I'm betting you won't do it, and Sara seems to have faith that you will. I shall savor my victory—"

"Simon?"

There was no mistaking the mischievous glee in the older man's voice.

"Why the Chicken Dance, of course. A Beer festival standard, Grissom!"

Sara was forced to muffle her sudden giggle in pretense of coughing in her fist as Grissom's strong knuckles throttled the steering wheel.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The main hall of the Henderson Fair Grounds was brightly lit, and music radiated from it, reaching the distant parking lot where Grissom, Simon and Sara were beginning the long walk forward. Groups of other people moved around them, talking and laughing as they all trekked towards the buildings. Sara walked between the men, pleased to have them flanking her, and feeling hopeful. As they got closer, the rich smells of beer, sausage, cabbage, pipe smoke and fragrant bread drifted out to meet them; Simon sniffed with appreciation.

"Ah, the sweet perfume of Teutonic celebration!"

This brought a smirk from Sara and a long-suffering one from Grissom; nevertheless they proceeded to the ticket booth. Simon paid for all three of them over Grissom's objections, but the matter was settled when he countered,

"Keep us in sausages in pretzels for the night and I'll call it even, Gil—bearing in mind that I still have a fairly rapid metabolism—the bone leading the bones, as it were."

"If we can get Sara to eat I'll consider it a worthy investment," Grissom replied, earning himself a glare from her. He shrugged mildly, "What? You need food too—"

"You know, your tact could really use some polish sometimes—" Sara muttered just under her breath. Grissom shot her a quizzical look, but followed her into the main hall and the boisterous atmosphere there.

Long tables covered in checked and flowered cloths had been set up in rows facing a dancing pavilion and a stage, upon which was a brass band in full swing. The musicians wore lederhosen and Tyrolean hats and sweated cheerfully through a chorus of "The Happy Wanderer". Simon led them to the empty half of a long table up against one wall and graciously waited for Sara to sit before he folded his long lean form down onto the padded bench across from her. Grissom sat next to Sara and looked around curiously.

Groups, couples and families sat around eating, drinking and singing, most of them looking happy. Simon managed to catch the eye of a passing waitress, and she rolled over to them, A round tray on one broad hip, smiling.

"Hallo Freunde, Willkommen zum fest Henderson Bier, was wurden Sie mögen?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye. Simon smiled broadly in return, answering,

""Hello recht eins, we'd mögen ein Menü please."

"Man, what accent is THAT?" she laughed, reaching in the pocket of her apron and fishing out three slips of paper. Simon reddened a little as he opened his up.

"Was it that bad? It's been a while since I've used my German."

The waitress shook her head, still smiling. "It's not bad, but the way you mangle the vowels, you sound like Forrest Gump."

"Must be that Louisiana regionality," Grissom offered, smirking. "Ihr akzent bildet Ihre wörter merkwürdig."."

"Woo, we have a Chicago accent in our midsts!" the waitress whooped, hearing Grissom, who shrugged. Sara rolled her eyes. Speaking crisply, she smiled up at the waitress and added,

"Und einige von uns studierten es gerade an der Schule. I'd Liebe ein schale Kohl, brezel und etwas Kroner Gold, please."

"Good order, GREAT accent!" the waitress enthused, scribbling Sara's request on a wrinkly pad resting on the tray. Simon and Grissom looked at each other and laughed.

"Woman, you outclass us every time—I'll have the sausage plate with cabbage and potatoes and your best dark beer on tap—Gil?"

"Sausage plate, potatoes and something nonalcoholic," Grissom had to raise his voice a little as the band swung into another number. The waitress nodded and lumbered off, leaving the three of them looking around. Simon shrugged off his blazer, leaving him in his shirt and vest while Sara set her coat down.

"How many beer festivals have you been to, Sara?" he asked her. She thought for a moment.

"Two—one in Boston, and one in Vallejo. The first one was an Oktoberfest, so it was pretty cold, but the other one was in the spring, and it has huge! I think every German American in California must have attended it."

"Ah. I've been to a few in Louisiana and once I was in Munich for an Oktoberfest--definitely an interesting experience. They had kegs there so enormous that you could have parked a Lincoln Continental in one and still had room for three Vespas and a red wagon!" Simon replied with a grin. Sara shook her head at that image, but Grissom's elbow bumped hers on the table as he spoke up.

"The kegs--were they steel?"

"No," Simon thought for a moment, "Not on the outside anyway; all wooden. I didn't get a chance to see the insides of the things, Gil—why?"

"Because I'm still wondering how our killer manages to give the bodies an acid bath without any suspicious odor or leakage," he confessed. Simon looked thoughtful for a long moment.

"He might be using a stainless steel or Teflon one—I know that most breweries use and replace them regularly. The fifty five to sixty gallon size would be enough to house a body quite easily, with no one the wiser once it was sealed up. But there can't be many breweries in Las Vegas, can there?"

That was the question; Grissom excused himself to find a quiet place to make the call to Catherine and while he was gone the food arrived. Simon glanced over at Sara and shook his head.

"The man's definitely what they call a multi-tasker I see. You look exceedingly lovely tonight, Sara my dear."

"Yeah—and thanks. I did get a sort of once-over if I read it right, but with Grissom you never know. I half suspect he checks out what I wear so if I'm ever reported missing he'll have something to tell the police," she grumpily admitted, spearing a forkful of potato. Simon sawed on the sausage before him and chuckled.

"Extend Gil a bit of compassion—he's trying so very hard to impress you while at the same time figure out my motives. I don't know about your dinner, but this is marvelous bratwurst here."

Grissom returned, settling down before his plate and staring at it with the expression of a man who clearly didn't remember ordering it. Sara watched him poke the potatoes.

"They're good. So's the cabbage."

He shot her a look, shaking his head. "No cabbage. Trust me on this, cabbage and I are not compatible."

"You don't like the taste?" Sara demanded, glancing back at her own plate. Grissom's mouth twitched and he looked at Simon, who said nothing, but continued to eat. Finally Grissom winced a little and admitted,

"It's not a matter of taste, but digestion—cabbage is a good, nutritious cruciferous vegetable, but ounce for ounce one of the most potent for inducing digestive methane."

Sara stared at him, and her brown eyes twinkled with a soft amusement that made him tingle again.

"Grissom—why would it matter? In the six to eight hours it takes to break down the stuff and have it pass through your system you'll be home alone."

Sara---" he fought the urge, and then gave in, softly grinning, "I'm not eating it—YOU are."

She paused a moment, her face pink and stammered, "Yes, well that's one of those downsides of being vegetarian. Better nutrition, but . . . "

"--More sound and fury?" Grissom finished mildly. Sara laughed, the gap in her teeth flashing out as she did so.

"You just made a fart joke. I don't believe this! You NEVER stoop to humor about body functions, Grissom. That's like, Greg's domain."

"Now, now children—at the risk of sounding like my own mother, flatulence is hardly a proper table topic—" Simon chided lightly as he waved a forkful of sausage at them. Grissom nodded and coughed lightly.

"Fair enough. Catherine's running a check on local breweries even as we speak."

"Why not ask around here?" Simon logically demanded. Sara finished up a mouthful of potato and nodded, seizing a printed napkin for the Sunset Brewery. Grissom looked it over, slightly deflated.

"I . . . didn't think of it," he admitted.

They finished and Sara mentioned wanting to take a look at the display cases in the front hall, so obligingly all three of them bundled out to look at the exquisite traditional costumes exhibited there. Simon pointed out the elk teeth and antler buttons.

"Those would prove whether these costumes are genuine—the leather might be aged and the stitching copied, but you cannot fake a bone."

"So, no false femurs," Sara teased.

"Certainly not. No made-up mandibles, or pseudo patellas," Simon countered. Grissom sighed.

"No sham scapulas, forged fibulas, hinky humeruses or counterfeit coccyx—" he rattled off blithely. Sara laughed a low sweetly musical sound as she moved to the next display case. Simon shot a sideways look at Grissom and ruefully shook his head.

"Counterfeit coccyx?"

"You started it—" Grissom felt compelled to point out, slightly annoyed. Sara was drifting down the hall, and every time the main doors opened, the breeze made the hem of her dress flutter up to reveal glimpses of her thighs.

"I beg to differ—Sara started it, not that it makes any difference at the moment," Simon pointed out. He gestured to the large directory of activities posted by the main doors and slowly walked over to it; Sara and Grissom flanked him as he read out loud.

"We have several interactive exhibits—beer-making, sausage-making, a dance pavilion, various charity booths and a carnival as well—what strikes your fancy, Sara dear?"

"Pass on the whole sausage-making," She responded promptly, "Aside from being an utterly gross process, it reminds me waaay too much of work."

"One long thankless smelly grind with the odd link here and there—" Simon agreed, eyes twinkling. Grissom looked affronted, but before he could protest, Sara pointed a slender finger at one of the listed options on the board.

"The Rubber Chicken Toss. I feel this compelling urge to try and win a Bavarian cuckoo clock, and the money goes to United Way—"

They headed out into the fairgrounds. The weather was cooler now that the sun was down, and the grounds had been both well-decorated and lit; everywhere around them came the sounds of laughter and accordions. Sara searched the alley of booths until she spotted the Rubber Chicken Toss one and marched up to it. Grissom followed, his attention far more focused on the back of Sara than anything else. She leaned over the counter, and in that motion, the long line of her legs and the curve of her behind was one of the finest sights Grissom had beheld in years. He blinked a little. Next to him, his mentor rolled his eyes.

"You're supposed to whistle, dumbass—" Simon whispered impatiently, then did it himself, a long wolfish sound, ripe with insinuation. Sara spun, staring angrily at them both; with an innocent smile Simon pointed a thumb at Grissom. "HE did it--But I heartily second the opinion, unless you're going to take us to court."

Grissom slowly turned his head to glare, and if looks could kill it was clear that Dr. Simon Munro should have been an ashy smoking crater at that point. Sara shot them both quelling looks and turned back around, much more self-consciously this time.

"Ours is NOT a society that venerates the old, Simon. I want you to remember that—" Grissom hissed, "—So that when they find your remains out in the desert, everyone will chalk it up to Alzheimer's."

Simon loftily ignored him and moved to flank Sara as the skinny barker behind the counter spun out the rules.

"You have to get the complete chicken in the pot, no bounce outs, no half-ins. Three chickens for two bucks, six chickens for five."

"I smell a rigged game," Simon muttered in an undertone to her. She began fishing in her purse, but he laid a hand on hers, and even the barker grinned.

"Yeah, you shouldn't have to pay—let your grandpa or your dad do it, honey."

Simon flinched, ever so slightly, and Grissom cleared his throat, but Sara shot a coldly wicked smile across the counter, then reached out and linked arms with both men.

"Wrong relationship, pal." She took a deep breath and plunged on, "--We're, um, we're a ménage a trois, actually."

Grissom was never so grateful for the coolness semi-darkness of night as he felt his face flame over. He didn't dare look over at either Simon or Sara, but he felt the reassuring pressure of her arm through his, and in that tiny squeeze a world of intimate solidarity came through.

"Whoa, no kiddin? Like for real?" the barker challenged, amused and slightly intrigued. Sara nodded slowly.

"Oh yeaaaah," she purred, flashing another grin, and looking from one man to the other, "I'm definitely into these two—they can go the distance, you know."

"Darling, you shouldn't be telling tales out of school—" Simon murmured sweetly, fishing out a five dollar bill and laying it on the counter. Sara batted her eyes at him, struggling not to break into chuckles as she held Simon's gaze as lovingly as she could.

"Sorry, Snookie—" she managed, amazed at her own sense of daring. Clearly Simon was rubbing off on her, and Sara marveled that being outrageous wasn't as hard as she'd though it would be. Next to her, Grissom fought valiantly against a mingled sense of hilarity and consternation at this bizarre turn of events which wasn't helped in the slightest when Sara shifted to lean against HIM and nuzzle her cheek on his shoulder. "—But you know how it is when you finally get everything you ever wanted . . . in bed."

Grissom clenched his teeth to hold back the sudden urge to yelp.

Or howl.

Or splutter wildly.

All because Sara's hand had wandered from his arm to lightly goose his backside as the barker laid a row of six rubber chickens on the counter with a respectful flourish.

"Okaay, way more than I needed to know—" the carny muttered through a half-grin, "--So step on up and win a clock then, Miss."

Sara worked her arms free from both men and eagerly seized a chicken, flinging it with more force than finesse at the cooking pots nailed up at various heights across the booth. It hit and bounced wildly, orange plastic legs flailing on the way down. Simon tut-tutted as Grissom tried to suck air into his lungs while his brain registered the sensations of a moment before.

Sara had just grabbed his ASS, for God's sake! Other than the fact she'd just violated about every statute on sexual harassment on file in Clark County Nevada, Grissom wasn't sure he could handle the level of tingle going on through him now.

More specifically the tingling focusing directly opposite the point of contact.

As Sara heaved another chicken, Grissom fought down the rising rebellion of his masculinity and tried to shift his focus back to rubber chickens and cuckoo clocks.

"Close your mouth, Gil, you look like a birdie's going to pop out on your tongue!" Simon whispered behind Sara's back. Grissom did, with a loud click of his teeth as another chicken went sailing up, far too off-center to even hit the pot. Sara harshly sighed.

"Three chickens, three people—we'll ALL give it a shot this last time, okay?"

"Fair enough, my dear, but I must warn you my sport was track and field, not basketball—" Simon sighed, hefting one of the rubber chickens in his big, bony hands. He flung it, sending it sailing high and hard over the back of the booth; a startled "What the FUCK?" squawked out from a hapless victim beyond the wall.

Simon covered his face with one hand and looked as if he wanted to slink away; Sara chortled, and even Grissom managed a smirk. Then the chicken sailed back over the booth wall and Sara snagged it easily as the barker shook his head in amusement.

"I don't get paid enough for this kinda aggravation, you know?"

Sara threw; the chicken fell short of the nearest pot, and she turned to Grissom, brown eyes bright with a sense of mischief.

Tingles were becoming pangs now.

"It's all on you now—no pressure—" she announced. Grissom glanced down at the remaining two chickens on the counter and picked them up, one in each hand. He tossed them one after the other in smooth arcs through the booth, potting them neatly in the same kettle as they made soft rubbery thumping sounds.

Sara stared.

Simon stared.

Grissom cleared his throat in a shy little self-effacing way.

"My CIA training. I'm forbidden to say anything more," he replied blandly. Simon broke into a broad chuckle, the sound deep and rich; Sara braced her hands on the booth counter shoulders shaking under the force of her giggles.

"C-C-CIA?"

"Operation Fowl Fling—very big in the Middle East," Grissom responded as the counterman carefully fished down two small cuckoo clocks from the displays and set them on the counter. They were cheap little things with the tacky charm of carnival prizes everywhere, and Sara picked one up smiling with pleasure.

"This is soooo kitsch. I love it." Turning to Grissom she quickly tiptoed and pecked his cheek softly, then did the same to Simon. The barker rolled his eyes, but he smiled a little himself.

"Yeah, well much as I understand you three sharing the love and all, you're blocking my booth here—"

Scooping up the other clock, Simon moved them away from the booth and cleared his throat. "Gil, I hate to impose, but would you take these highly valuable prizes back to the car for us? I'm sure Sara doesn't want to lug them around all night—"

After Grissom lumbered off, Simon led Sara to an empty bench along the carnival thoroughfare and they sat. His expression bordered on seriously smug, and Sara poked him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Grin any wider and I'd have to check your teeth for canary feathers—" she accused. He snorted.

"I think I have reason to be self-satisfied, Sara dear—Ménage a trois, really! Did you SEE Grissom's face at that? And wherever did such an outrageous notion occur to you in the first place?"

Sara didn't respond right away; instead she stretched, arms over her head lengthening herself in a glorious slow extension that was both sultry and sweet. Simon gave a little rumbling sigh of male appreciation.

"Woman, do not tempt me unduly, or I may HAVE to steal you away from the smoldering scientist."

Sara laughed, and sat back against the bench.

"You have no idea how good it feels to hear something like that, Simon. I haven't had a lot of practice lately in tempting men, so even a joke like that feels really . . . nice."

Reaching over, Simon took her hand and squeezed it.

"Who's joking? But my chances sweeping you off your feet are dwindling even as we speak, particularly after your little goosing back there. You've gotten a rise out of him, my dear."

Sara blushed, shooting a little disbelieving look at Simon, who nodded.

"Really?"

"Speaking as an authority on both bones and boners—absolutely."

"Simon!" Sara spluttered, going a deeper shade of red, but he merely laughed again and shook his head knowingly.

"What a lovely enigma you are, Sara Sidle. A woman who thinks nothing of collecting all sorts of bodily fluids as evidence in the course of her work, and yet blushes at the mention of an erection."

"It's not the situation, it's the party involved," came her quick retort. "I'm not used to thinking of Grissom as . . . responsive."

"The stimulus is pretty amazing right now. I'd keep up the good work," Simon teased, earning a light swat on the wrist.

After a few more minutes, Grissom finally returned, hands in his pockets, lost in thought, and Sara snapped her fingers under his nose.

"Earth to Grissom?"

"Sorry. Still thinking about stainless steel kegs. Sara, can we walk through the brewery exhibit so I can take a look—"

"—At the vats? Yep," she nodded, feeling a familiar yet fond exasperation. She linked her arm through his once more, and Grissom looked down, smiling quickly. Simon received her other arm and linked, they walked through the charity booths towards the far hall where a large sign advertised SUDWERKS.

"Drink of the Gods," Grissom murmured as Simon nodded. Carefully they moved down the walkway, looking at the displays of hops and barley, listening to the beer docents discussing the process with great earnestness. By the time they reached the plexi-glass window with the brewing behind it, both Grissom and Simon were carefully studying the various vats with professional assurance.

"If he's using a larger vat, is it possible he's doing more than one victim at a time?" Grissom pondered. Simon shrugged.

"We won't know until we've finished articulating the skeletons and then run a comparison on the decay rate of each one. I can tell you that at least one of them has more surface degradation that the others, and based on that, it was probably the proto for the process. Although I have to wonder why he didn't just let them dissolve completely--why go to the trouble of burying them when you could reduce them to sludge?"

"He may not have had the luxury of time. Or, maybe the skeletons were meaningful in some way." Sara interjected thoughtfully. "There could be some ritual significance in this."

The three of them pondered that thought and made it through the exhibit, dutifully accepting tiny sample mugs of beer at the end. Sara winced at the tang and Simon laughed at her expression.

"It's an acquired preference my dear, like hot sauce on eggs or cheese on apple pie."

"Whipped cream on brownies—" Grissom murmured a trifle wistfully. Sara looked at him and he shrugged at this small admission. For a moment she pictured him with a can of Reddi-whip, building a huge mound of white fluff on a rectangle of chocolate. She made a little moan that Grissom caught, and they each turned away, flushing slightly. Simon hid a smile.

Things were going well indeed—time to raise the stakes.

With a push on the door, he led the way out of the brewery exhibit and out into the cooler night. The merry sounds of polka drifted out, and Simon waved a hand in time to the music.

"Shall we dance, my dear?" he asked Sara, leading her towards the pavilion. Grissom trailed behind them, pretending to think about the case and giving himself permission to look at Sara's . . . assets. He felt hot and cold in turns, wondering why his skin felt tight and his pulse wouldn't settle down. When they reached the pergola where the band was playing, Simon took Sara's slender hand in his bigger, bonier one, and gently settled the other just above her hip.

"Polka?"

"Ah—" before she could say anything, he swept her away, and Grissom watched her bounce along with Simon moving in joyous speed to the music. And then came the epiphany of unexpected magic.

Sara's skirt, that lovely lightweight material flew in a pretty twist, the hem sailing high as Simon twirled her around and around. Grissom froze to the spot, caught up in the soft, sweetly erotic image of Sara's slender thighs encased in lace-topped thigh highs, those legs as long and lovely as ever, visible and tempting. He felt himself sway a little as they sailed past, and moved to lean his back against a pillar, needing the support it offered.

Sara caught glimpses of Grissom as she and Simon flew around the dance floor, but the music and the steps were more complicated than she remembered, and it took most of her concentration not to trip. Simon was smiling at her, his eyes merry as they moved. But by the third turn around the floor Sara could see his expression change a little, and she slowed down so he could catch his breath. When the song came to an end, Sara felt Simon's hands tighten, seeking her support. Carefully she held onto him and he fished in his vest pocket for his nitro.

"Bless you, dear—" he muttered, dropping the tiny tablet under his tongue. His back was to Grissom, who came up just in time to see Simon put the metal pill holder away. His eyes narrowed.

"Angina again?"

"Of course, Gil," Simon rasped, "I gave up on the LSD and mescaline for Lent."

Grissom gently steered him off the dance floor and to a bench on one side of the pavilion. Simon's color had returned and he gratefully sipped a lemonade that Sara brought it to him. Both she and Grissom stared at him with such concern that he grew self-conscious.

"Oh please, children, I'm hardly going to drop dead at a beer fest," he snapped. Sara blushed. Grissom rolled his eyes.

"Simon—"

"Grissom—" came the same tone, mocking him gently. Simon waved the lemonade glass at his younger colleague, "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Let's not forget I've put a good deal of mileage on this particular chassis, so the occasional stall is to be expected. Besides, look at who I got to dance with—if that's not enough to make a man's heart skip a beat I don't know what IS."

"Okay, Simon--you're the only man I've ever met that I'm going to let get away with lines like that in this day and age!" Sara spluttered through a crooked smile. He batted his eyes at her playfully.

"I flaunt it while I can, Sara dear. No, let me catch my breath here and you two go dance. I insist—" he made little shooing motions with his free hand, and Sara reluctantly looked at Grissom. He gave a tentative smile.

"Polka?"

"Uh, sure."

They walked up to the dance floor self-consciously, finding a spot between a few other couples.

"Where did you learn to do this?" Sara asked, to fill the awkwardness between them. Grissom flashed her a quick smile.

"One of my aunts was an Arthur Murray instructor and made me and my cousins learn. And you?"

"PE class, sixth grade," she confessed. "We had a dance unit. The boys liked dancing with me because I was so much taller than they were that my boobs were in their faces most of the time."

Startled, Grissom had no reply for that. He laid a careful hand on her waist and took her other one in his just as the introductory phrase of music rolled out. He looked up in time to see her gaze on him, those warm chocolate eyes all liquid and soft.

A hop, and they were off, spinning to the music, bouncing along in a cheerful twirl of sound and step. Sara was light against his hands, moving well, muscles flexing easily against the music. Grissom let himself relax and go with the flow, remembering the afternoons with aunt Janice wash through him, making his feet and legs remember the steps. Sara's hand tightened in his, and he steered her around, gaining confidence, picking up speed.

Just as they passed their starting point, flashing past Simon, disaster struck. Someone's shoe flew off, and Sara stumbled over it, starting to fall. Grissom tightened his grip as he felt her begin to stagger but their momentum was more than he could control and with a flail and a crash they went down onto the parquet floor, along with two other startled couples who collided with them. The polka band, startled out of their tune squawked to a halt and people began hurrying towards the collapsed couples with concerned murmurs and a few laughs here and there.

Grissom couldn't breathe. He was lying on top of Sara, a dead weight resting on the sweet cushion of her body, feeling it under his, molding in hot perfection around him. It wasn't her chest or ribs or stomach that drove the breath from him, but the startled flare of espresso lust in her big eyes and the cradle of her lean thighs around his hips. The swift clench of her legs in a clandestine caress made him wheeze a little as he realized there was no way in hell she could miss his . . . enthusiasm for their current situation.

The tingles had found their purpose, and that purpose was getting bigger all the time.


	5. Chapter Five

"H-hurt?" he demanded, shifting a little and biting back a groan as friction sent a shiver through him. Sara began to clamber up, taking her time in sliding one long leg down the side of his. Grissom got a lovely view of her thighs again before she smoothed her skirt down and accepted helping hands to pull her to her feet. Simon brushed her arms and shoulders, making little concerned noises.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, really, just a little sore," she murmured with an embarrassed smile. Grissom got up, dusting himself, trying desperately to keep turned away from Sara and Simon. He concentrated on nullifying thoughts: dead kittens, vomit, Ecklie naked—yes, that did it. No problem now. Grissom looked up to see Simon studying him with a bemused expression.

"Much swelling there?" came his whispered, direct jibe. Grissom blushed and chose to ignore it. He waved away help and apologies from the woman whose shoe had caused the pileup, turning his attention to Sara. She didn't meet his eyes, and stood wobbling a little.

"Ankle," she muttered, looking down to where a torn spot on her stocking showed a reddish lump rising just above the anklebone. Immediately Simon dropped to one knee and examined it, gently touching the injury.

"Looks as if you bumped it on the floor my dear. A little ice should help. Can you walk?"

She could, with a hand on Grissom's shoulder, and together he and Simon helped her to the bench. He carefully placed Sara's foot in Grissom's lap and added,

"Let me find some ice—keep that elevated, won't you Gil?"

Gritting his teeth and shooting Simon a hard gaze, Grissom nodded. The last thing he needed at the moment was another clear shot up Sara's skirt, and her seductively prim shoe in his lap, but he couldn't say no, not after the fact. So sitting very still, Grissom looked up and across the fair grounds, thinking once again of Ecklie, but in a European Speedo this time.

"Grissom? Um, if you're going to throw up, please don't do it on my leg—" Sara murmured in a worried voice. He shook himself out of his thoughts and glanced over at her, undoing all his good work of a moment ago as he looked in Sara's warm eyes. Her heel pressed against his—well, his lap, and he shifted a little, trying for a smile.

"I'm not good at socializing, Sara. Whatever it is that you and Simon do, I can't. It just doesn't happen for me."

Sara looked at him, and she cleared her throat a little, tipping her head shyly in a way that made her hair fall in front of her face.

"Me either. Simon's the one who can do it. I'm not much of go outer, but around him, it's easy. When we go places, I'm not worrying about talking too much or making an impression or anything."

"Oh." Grissom responded softly, nodding his head. It made sense. Simon's whole personality hinged on making other people comfortable, usually in very uncomfortable situations, and clearly even Sara felt the glamour. He looked down at her foot, realizing he'd been stroking her shoe. Sara chuckled.

"My spinster shoes. When I wear them I feel like I should have my hair in a bun and carry a cat around. Creepy old Miz Sidle, you know?"

"Never creepy, and certainly not old—" Grissom told her firmly, feeling a smile cross his face. She said nothing, and flexed her foot. "And you're not a spinster yet."

"So YOU say. I am over thirty and unmarried, which is the definition of a spinster. That always sounds so pathetic. Bachelor doesn't. A man can be a bachelor all his life and it doesn't have the stigma that spinster does."

Grissom shook his head. "Maybe not, but it's lonely just the same. I think that's part of the reason I came with you and Simon tonight."

"What's the other part?" Sara wanted to know. Grissom shook his head, not ready to divulge that one. Simon came back with the ice, wrapped in a napkin and held it out to Sara.

"For your damaged gam, my dear, courtesy of the lemonade vendor, who sent this as well—" he handed her a large plastic cup and Sara sipped it thirstily. Simon looked down at Grissom's first aid and nodded a little.

"Not a bad bump, really, although her polka dancing is probably over for the night. Sara, are you going to be able to walk, or shall we call it an evening?"

She finished her mouthful of lemonade and flexed her foot a little, her expression lost in thought.

"I'm good as long as I can hang on to the two of you I think. I really wanted to get in ONE chicken dance if I could—" she added, shooting Grissom a daring expression. He flinched a little. As he slid her foot from his lap and helped her stand, Grissom whispered, desperately,

"Look, couldn't we just pass on it and I'll slip you a hundred dollars tomorrow instead?"

"That's bribery."

"My dignity is worth it—" he argued, letting Sara loop her arm through his; she shook her head.

"No deal. I'm dead set on seeing you flap your arms and waggle your behind, Grissom."

He said nothing, but his aggrieved expression made her giggle as she slipped an arm through Simon's. He set a slow pace and the three of them made it down the cement walkway back towards the main hall. They didn't speak much, savoring a companionable silence as the sound of the brass band before them grew louder. Simon found them a seat at one of the benches and guided Sara to it just as a familiar bar of music rang out. She burst into a grin. Simon rolled his eyes skyward and Grissom cringed, visibly.

People scurried to the dance floor, quickly forming a ring, laughing and chattering Simon shot a dire look at Grissom, unflinching and direct. Wilting slightly, Grissom followed his mentor up to the dance floor as Sara watched the pair of them settle themselves with a chubby little girl between them. The bandleader called out places and the musicians swung into the chicken dance with merry enthusiasm, the tune rollicking out as the people on the floor began to move.

Sara couldn't breathe. She laughed and laughed, clutching her stomach, and snorting helplessly at the sight of Gil Grissom, renowned entomologist and night shift supervisor half-heartedly going through the motions of flapping his elbows and shaking his rear end in time with the music. The child next to him gave him a stare and shook her head, then turned to loop arms with Simon for the chorus. Sara gripped her bench, feeling her face grow redder and redder as the dance went on.

When the last strains died away, Simon and Grissom came back to the bench to collect her. Sara had her face hidden in a napkin promoting St. Pauli Girl beer, and her shoulders were still shaking.

"You win, Sara my love, you most definitely win," Simon hooted, dropping onto the bench on one side of her. "Oh what I wouldn't have given for a video camera."

"No!" Alarmed, Grissom looked around, trying desperately to wipe his damp temples and regain what shreds of dignity he could. As he sat down on the other side of her, he leaned closer and muttered into her ear.

"I'll have you know that I wouldn't have done that for my own MOTHER, Sara Sidle, so any mention of this incident in the lab will mean that your next evaluation will be less than objective."

"Oh I can be discreet . . . Herr Grissom," she chortled, looking up at him through bright eyes, her cheeks still pink.

Simon made a great show of fishing out his wallet and carefully pulling out five twenty dollar bills, laying them on Sara's palm with grand ceremony. Grissom gave a pained sigh and made a production out of checking his watch. Simon smiled.

"Oh I agree, time to head home. The spirit is always willing but in the seventh decade the flesh is catching up. Home, Gil, and don't spare the horsepower—"

They made it back to the Denali, Simon and Sara chattering the entire way about something to do with pottery. Grissom half-listened, strolling easily, well aware of the slender arm linked through his. It felt . . . comfortable. Natural. Endearing. When Sara slowly pulled it away to open the car door he felt a pang of loss for a moment, but took it in stride and got in on the driver's side, oddly content.

It had been a good evening, a surprisingly good one, and Grissom wasn't sure if it was the company or the change of pace that made it so. Probably both, he mused. They drove back, the conversation bouncing around from Kafka to the Civil War to skin diving, all in a happy flow of words.

"Ah the coast of Bora Bora, Sara, I must take you there someday . . . miles of beach and inches of bikini—you'd love the sunsets," Simon sighed. Sara laughed.

"Sorry, Simon, but I don't own a bikini. Beaches in Northern California require wetsuits to get into the water. Thermal ones."

"That's why you need time in warmer water, Sara. Hot water, to be exact." A hint of something in his voice made Grissom glance up into the rear view mirror to glare briefly at Simon, who shot back a sunny smile, completely uncowed.

"Don't you agree with me Gil?"

"About what?" he asked suspiciously, sensing a trap. Simon rolled his eyes.

"About Sara, of course. She needs time in warm water."

"She's not a teabag, Simon." They pulled into the parking lot of the Sirocco and up to the main doors. Sara climbed out along with Simon, much to Grissom's alarm, but it was merely to hug him and hand off one of the cuckoo clocks.

"Ah! One last thing—" Simon muttered. He shifted around to the driver's side and tapped on the window; Grissom rolled it down. "Do you have a coin, Gil?"

Obligingly Grissom fished in a pocket. Sara came around to watch, her curiosity up. Simon took the quarter and flipped it, spinning it up into a silver ball up in the air.

"Call it, Gil—"

"Tails," came the automatic response. Simon deftly snatched the coin out of the air and slapped it onto the back of his hand, staring down at it. His shoulders sagged in obvious defeat and he shot a sideways glare at Grissom, who flinched a little at the iciness of it.

"What?"

Ignoring him, Simon looked at Sara, drawing himself up manfully and taking her hand.

"I have lost to Gil, my dear, drat the luck. It appalls me to admit defeat."

"Defeat in what way?" Sara asked with a sudden sense of wariness. Simon sighed heavily, patting her hand between his two.

"I have lost the pleasurable privilege of kissing you goodnight, of course. Talk about ill fortune and missed opportunity! Instead, my rightful indulgence rests on the lips of Grissom here. What an utterly annoying development."

"Wait a minute!"

Simon held up a hand, nodding at her in apparent commiseration. In a stage whisper he added, "Just close your eyes and think of the lab, then let me know if he does all right when I see you on Monday then—"

He turned away, then turned back and pointed one knobby finger at Grissom.

"Of course you could always forfeit—"

"No." It came out before Grissom even thought about it consciously; Simon nodded slowly, his glare still evident.

"Very well then," he sighed, and turned once again to stride towards the Sirocco. Sara watched him go, her cheeks hot. Numbly she walked around the Denali and climbed in, not looking at Grissom, but focusing instead on the cuckoo clock in her hands. It was as small as a softball.

The vehicle pulled out again into traffic and embarrassed silence. It stretched on and on, and finally in desperation, Sara held up the clock.

"I think it needs a battery."

"What size?" came Grissom's quick query. She looked at the bottom, prying open the tiny compartment there, checking the layout.

"A pair of double As. I'm pretty sure I have some back at my place. I'll dig them out of my old Walkman and it should run. The clock that is, not the Walkman." Sara clamped her jaws shut to stop her babbling, risking a tiny sideways peek at Grissom. He was focused on the road, but she noted that his hands were locked on the steering wheel tightly enough to make his knuckles white.

They pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, and Grissom felt the hot coil of tension in his stomach tighten yet another turn. Simon's words echoed in his head, and along with the shiver of excitement they created came the nagging gleam of annoyance. Grissom prided himself on acuity, and in this moment he knew he'd been set up. Why? He wasn't sure, but it didn't pay to ask too closely when he had a chance to kiss Sara, however chastely.

Grissom climbed out. Sara watched him, her eyes big and liquid as he walked over to her.

"The clock."

"The clock?"

"I'd like to see it chime."

"Oh. Sure."

Leading the way, Sara pulled open the lobby doors and began the climb up the stairs, acutely aware of the heavy tread just behind her. She felt both annoyed and exasperated with Simon, but breathless just the same. His gauntlet had been masterfully thrown; Grissom had responded, sort of, and heaven knew what the next few minutes would bring. Carefully she fished in her purse for her keys, and congratulated herself mentally for getting them into the lock without shaking too much.

"Come on in—" Sara muttered, pushing the door open.

The apartment was moderately sized, Grissom judged, but beautifully organized and a clear reflection of many facets of Sara. A handmade earthenware pottery vase full of dried sunflowers graced her kitchen counter. Two overstuffed sofas formed a cozy corner in the living room, both of them in neutral colors but loaded with pillows of deep red and gray.

Grissom glanced around, trying to hide his delight at seeing so much texture and color and personality everywhere: the intricate wooden beaded curtain hiding the hallway to the other rooms; the Art Nouveau champagne posters on the walls, a full-scale articulated skeleton on the corner wearing a green felt fez with tissue paper flowers stuck in the ribs; a bamboo parrot cage hanging overhead with a live Boston fern sprouting through the bars.

"This is . . . you," he nodded, satisfied and intrigued. Sara looked up from a drawer in her kitchen, startled.

"Huh?" she used a fork to pry at the batteries in the Walkman in her hand.

"Your apartment's got . . . character."

"It's got clutter that I keep fighting, tooth and nail, but I've figured out that memories are sometimes more important than organization. Ah!"

At that last, one of the double A batteries flew up and across the breakfast bar; Grissom caught it neatly with one hand, snagging it with the reflexes of an outfielder. Sara grinned broadly when he held it up.

"Pop fly, no score—" he replied, tossing it back to her. She nodded and carefully placed it into the clock bottom. Intrigued, Grissom came closer as she fitted the panel back on and snapped it in place.

"So?"

"So we have to move the hands to the hour to make it chime—" she retorted, carefully using one elegant index finger to spin the minute hand up to the twelve. Since the hour hand was on the five, the tiny cuckoo popped through the little trap door above the clock face and chirped sweetly.

"Cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo."

With a click the bird retreated once more and the door snapped shut. The clock ticked and Sara set it to the correct time. Grissom looked at it, definitely amused.

"It's got—charm, I suppose."

"It's kitsch and very German and I'm going to put it over my sink here," Sara decided with a grin. Grissom nodded, watching as she held it up and tried to center it between two mounted plates already on the wall. One was of the Golden Gate Bridge, the other was of the Old North Tower in Boston, he noticed. Sara seemed to find a happy point between the two, and set the clock down, then returned to the drawer. Grissom watched her fish around in it, coming up with a thick pushpin.

"Need help?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"Nope," she muttered, adding, "Thank you though." Stepping back to the sink, Sara pushed the pin, but it refused to sink into the drywall. Grissom hid his grin and walked over, reaching to her hand. She tried pushing again, but failed. He took it from her.

"You've got a stud here."

"Excuse me?" Sara flushed, looking up at Grissom. He gestured to the wall with a tip of his head.

"A support beam, a stud. You'll need a hammer or something heavy to drive this in if this is where you're going to hang the clock." Came his calm voice. Sara nodded over-vigorously, clearing her throat a little.

"Oh, yes, right. Let me grab my bowling ball."

Grissom watched her head off, not sure he'd heard her correctly. "Your bowling ball, Sara?"

"Well you said we need something heavy, and I don't have a hammer. Hang on, it's under the bed—"

He couldn't help thinking of it. A bowling ball under her bed. Why? Was she planning on rolling it at burglars? Lost in the strange image of Sara striking out masked bandits, Grissom turned to see her carrying a bright pink and white marbled bowling ball towards him.

"That's . . . yours?" he asked. She nodded, handing it to him. Not light. Carefully Sara pulled the plates down and set them on the counter.

"Yep. Three years in a league in Berkeley and another year in Boston. I have a wicked right hook and a one fifty six average which I know I could improve if I practiced more, but it's not something I'm into much these days—"

Motioning to him, she held the pushpin, and Grissom lifted the ball. It made a hard thunk against the pin, sinking it in a few centimeters, and Sara nodded, so he did it again. After two good hits the pin was in to the hilt, and Sara sighed happily. She rehung the plates and was about to put the clock up when her cell phone rang.

"Sidle. Oh. Um, no. No. That's right," She murmured into the receiver. Grissom suddenly knew who was on the phone. He took it from her fingers, trading the bowling ball for it, and snapped,

"Simon, no I have not kissed her yet and we'll see you in the lab on Monday. Goodnight." He clicked the phone off, looking up at Sara, who was staring at him with big eyes.

"Um . . . actually, that was Bonnie Rodriguez about my deposition next week—" she murmured gently. Grissom froze. His face felt like a campfire, the heat flaring over it in a wave as he stared at her. Sara picked up the cuckoo clock and turned, hanging it neatly on the pushpin, then turned back to him. Grissom hadn't moved.

"Grissom?" she asked, a little worried. He gave a shake of his head, like a dog troubled by a flea and managed a sickly smile at her.

"I'll call her back and apologize tomorrow . . ." he faintly murmured. Sara reached over and patted his arm, feeling a great surge of simple adoration for him.

"She's a DA, she's used to abrasiveness. Did you want something to drink? Coffee, hot chocolate, beer?"

"Ah, no, no thanks. I really should get going," Grissom replied, suddenly caught up in the image of Sara sipping hot chocolate, and having a little fringe of cream on her upper lip. She gave a shrug and nodded, steering him to the door, then very carefully turned her face, offering him her right cheek. Puzzled, he stared at her.

"For the kiss," she quavered, not looking at him, "So you can live up to the letter of the bet if not the spirit, you know?"

Grissom looked at that velvety fine boned profile and a quiver fluttered through his belly. A thousand urges flooded through him, ranging from Boy Scout to barbarian, and in the end he gave in to their insistent arguments, knowing it was perhaps his one opportunity, possibly his only one—

He slid his hands along the underside of her jaw line, turning her startled face towards him, savoring the softness of Sara's skin as he pulled her closer.

"This is Vegas, and winners here take all—" he breathed, and before he could talk himself out of it, Grissom kissed her.

Sara's mouth was sweet, her surprise making her lips part slightly under his and Grissom could no more resist the impulsive desire to slip into that mouth than he could to breath. Their tongues slid together, rasping in a heady rush of pleasure. They molded to each other easily, naturally. Deeper, wetter, the kiss went on as Sara's arms wound around his shoulders, and Grissom's muffled groan blended with hers. When he finally pulled back, needing to breathe and resenting it, Sara looked up at him, tousled and sweet, utterly, completely kissed. Then she licked her lips and Grissom groaned again at the sight of that.

"That was . . . " he trailed off, not having the vocabulary to describe the sweet maelstrom surging through his entire body now. No tingles, no pangs, just hard, urgent desire manifesting itself in ways Sara wasn't going to miss if she kept pressing up against him like that.

And she didn't judging from the little please sigh that escaped her. Grissom leaned back against the door, needing the support it gave as he closed his eyes. Sara leaned against him, and her arms began to loosen a bit.

"Man I am SO glad you won the coin toss," she murmured in a husky voice that sent shivers down his spine even as he smiled.

"That makes two of us," Grissom replied, looking into her dark chocolate eyes. Sara smothered a little laugh, tilting her head and giving him a soft, inviting look. He bent forward and kissed her again, wanting to keep it soft and gentle, but the moment their lips touched the heat flared again; Sara surged against him with a little whimper.

It was delicious and tender, a kiss of intimate promise fueled by dual desire and restrained by time. Sara pulled away first, sighing with a great shudder, then reached for the doorknob just next to Grissom's left hip, turning it.

"Very nice. So, thanks for a lovely night, and the clock and, uh, I'll see you at the lab on Monday, okay?"

Startled, Grissom found himself herded out into the hallway as Sara gently waved her fingers at him and closed the door again between them. He stood stupidly there for a moment; his body still tense and hungry, his brain at a loss to figure out what had just happened. Woman here, woman tasty, woman . . . gone.

The urge to pound on the door flared, but guiltily, Grissom glanced up and down the hall, aware of the lateness of the hour. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, and slowly began to turn for the stairs, slightly dazed and very, very confused.

On the other side of the door, Sara held her breath even as her body yearned to yank the portal open again fling herself at Grissom. I-Chihuahua! Who knew the man could KISS like that? She dizzily chided herself. With reluctance, she flipped the locks and turned from the door, wondering if she'd done the right thing.

"Cu-ckoo!" the clocked chimed the half-hour, and Sara wholeheartedly agreed.

"Ah, just in time!" came Simon's cheerful voice on Monday morning. Sara looked into the Trace Lab to see him with an apron on over his clothes and his sleeves rolled up. He was rolling long ropes of clay, laying them out in rows on the counter while in front of him on a stand stood one of the Bone Yard skulls. Sara hung her jacket on a chair and came over, watching him roll another rope of the flesh-colored clay out.

"Reconstruction, cool."

"I hope to have a good likeness done and then perhaps show it around both locally and at the border patrol offices. Young Nick has traced the cloth on the bean sack to a specific pattern run from last year, so we do have a time frame for at least one of the killings. The last report we have on the acid scarring on the bones confirms that the bodies were submerged for substantial periods of time before inhumation."

"Nasty. How long would it take for a body to lose its biodegradable essence?" she asked, donning a lab coat and helping him to roll the clay. She was grateful for the professional talk since she wasn't quite up to discussing Grissom's kisses, or the conflicted Sunday she'd spent trying not to think about them. Simon paused to think a moment.

"A few weeks, but much of it depends on the concentration of the acid. So far the exact percentage has eluded young Sanders, but from what Captain Brass has told me, they're searching all the known manufacturers and storage facilities at the moment."

"Ah."

They worked quietly for a while, and Sara found herself relaxing a little, grateful not to be facing an inquisition. She helped Simon mount the depth plugs on the skull, and watched as he carefully began to apply the sealant to it.

"How is your clock?" came his soft question. Sara shot him a look, but Simon's attention was on the skull.

"Fine. Once I got some batteries into it that is. Why? Doesn't yours work?"

"Oh yes, mine works just fine. I've a good mind to pack it up and send it to my daughter in New York—Sari is a good girl and loves a good joke." Seeing Sara's confused expression, Simon added, "She thinks I'm cuckoo to keep on the road the way I do."

"I don't see why—you're good at this. Why give up what you love to do?"

Simon nodded, running his fingers along the skull's maxilla in an absentminded caress. "And yet I love my home and family too. Isn't it odd that some people feel you cannot have both?"

Sara shifted her gaze from the skull to Simon, and saw in his face a gentle understanding. She blinked for a moment, and he gave a soft chuckle, reaching to clap a bony hand on her shoulder.

"No second thoughts, Sara my dear. My philosophy on most things is not either/or, but both."

"So does this mean I can have you AND Grissom?" she murmured under her breath. Simon shot her a sideways look, snorting a little as he picked up the first coil of clay, hefting it in his hands.

"Oh hardly, Miss Ménage a trois—Gil and I are too much alike to ever share someone as delectable as you. No, in our case, this is one of those rare concessions I'll make. Grissom OR myself, and trust me, I'm not a gracious loser. How was he?"

"Good. MORE than good. I'm in a lot of trouble here."

"Hmmm. Not necessarily. How long did he stay?"

"I shoved him out the door after the second kiss."

"Good girl. Hand me another coil there, will you?" Simon murmured as he finished off the first one in a slow wrap along the skull's base. Sara handed him a few more ropes of clay and just when they reached the chin, Grissom appeared in the doorway. He glanced at the skull for a moment, which was easier than looking at either one of them.

"Greg locked in the concentration, and we may have a possible site for the acid immersion," he spoke softly. "Brass is getting the warrant now."

"Good." Simon nodded, not looking up from his work. Grissom continued.

"Since you've been working on this exclusively, we're leaving in a few minutes. I want you with me, Sara."

After he'd left, Simon glanced over at her and nodded. "I bet he does."

"I have to go—any advice?" Sara pleaded, peeling off her lab coat. Simon shrugged.

"Be polite, be professional—and stay quiet. Let HIM spend some time trying to find the right words."

"Thanks—" Sara sighed.


	6. Chapter Six

The Denali pulled up behind Brass's Park Avenue and Sara took a moment to bring her thoughts back to the case at hand. Grissom had been silent for the entire drive, answering her few questions in distracted monosyllables, not even daring to look in her direction.

She sensed him though. It was impossible not to feel Grissom's presence. He had a way of being silent that said it all, and as Sara climbed out of the car, she felt the sort of tingle through her she hadn't felt in a long time. Looking up, she saw the lamp lit sign illuminating a billboard proclaiming the building in front of them to be A-Pro Chemicals.

It had a shabby hard-working look to it, and stood at the end of a cul-de sac in an industrial park area between a salvage yard and a self-storage lot. A twelve-foot hurricane fence topped with razor wire surrounded the building, but there were patrolmen already at the gate, standing and waiting as Brass came forward to Grissom and Sara.

"We've got the warrant, and the owner here, Mr. Rossino Findlay is just about to give us the grand tour. He's willing to co-operate, but he's also lawyered up, so take that as you will."

Grissom glanced at Sara, who nodded and followed his lead into the building. The scuffled linoleum and painted cinderblock walls looked just as shabby as the outside of the building, and Sara noted the entire place had a strong metallic scent to it, heavy with the mingled odors of copper and ammonia and mold. The fluorescent lighting flickered as they walked down the hallway to an office, where a fat man with sweat-stains around his armpits and a very bad comb-over was digging through papers on his desk.

"My personnel records are here—only got fifteen altogether ya know, but most of them have been with me for a long time. Always happy to co-operate," he muttered in a tone of mild discontent. Sara looked at Grissom, who looked at Brass. He gave a small wince and nodded.

"Okay then, we'll stay here and let the rest of these nice people do their job then. Glad to see your attitude's so good, Mr. Findlay."

000 000 000

It was discouraging on every front, Grissom decided. A-Pro Chemicals might be a shabby run down little clearinghouse for dangerous chemicals, but it stood up to code, barely, and didn't have anything they could directly connect to the murders. True, the acid concentration was a match, but as Grissom well knew, all it meant was that the tanks here were a probably source and not a definite one. And other tests all around them hadn't revealed any other link of blood or fiber or soil.

Through it all, Sara worked beside him efficiently, moving from one area to another in the quiet concentrated way she had when she was on the trail. She'd study things, giving them her dark claret scrutiny, as if urging a confession from the cinderblocks or stainless steel around her. And every time he looked at her, Grissom remembered the hot cotton candy flavor of her kisses, the playful tease of her tongue with his.

It was maddening, and yet the odd thing was that none of it broke his deliberation on the case at hand. He found he could work through his battery of tests without hesitation, and keep careful logs of each room of the plant. They'd worked their way through the three main bays of A-Pro in a matter of as many hours with barely a handful of sentences between them. Grissom wished he knew her thoughts, wondered if Sara had spend as conflicted a Sunday as he had, torn between wanting to call and fighting that urge.

Why had it been so easy with Simon between them? Or even afterwards in her apartment? Those giddy moments of something more, MUCH more than friendship still haunted him and he'd spent far too time dwelling on it. Grissom looked over at Sara who had was on her hands and knees, scraping something off the tiles at the end of bay three, and the sight of her perky ass showcased through her black slacks made him breathe a little hard.

And not just breathe.

And not just a little.

Grissom allowed himself a few seconds longer of staring/admiring/wistfully lusting, then turned away and looked down the intersecting hall to the garage of A-Pro, wondering if he could duck under the chemical shower and make it look like an accident. Surely a nice drenching would wash away his tingles and—

"Grissom?" came Sara's absent voice. He half-turned, trying to keep his sudden enthusiasm out of sight. Sara glanced behind her and held up one latex-covered hand in a beckoning gesture.

"I've got blood here. Not recent; it looks like a stain that got cleaned up."

Grissom looked around the bay for the light switch even as Sara picked up her bottle of Luminol and protective goggles. The spray hissed out and settled lightly on the concrete, highlighting a syncopated pattern of boot prints that led from the hallway door and across the bay. They were heaviest at the sill and grew fainter as the trail led towards the big drums stored along the far wall; Sara frowned a little and rocked back on her heels thinking out loud.

"So somebody stepped in blood, or had blood on the underside of their boots . . . and walked into the bay. That's a long way not to notice it."

"Unless it was dark at the time," Grissom pointed out. "If the suspect had come in and gone to get a drum of acid under those circumstances, he might not have noticed the blood until sometime later. That would have given the stains time to set into the concrete despite the cleaning."

"And even though we don't work theories, moving acid in the dark sounds pretty suspicious to me. Let's check the hall and see where the footprints might have come from," Sara suggested. They moved to the hallway and carefully applied more luminal, getting a long series of glowing streaks that led to the outside door. Grissom frowned.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting that," he admitted. "I was sure the trail would have led to the garage. Logic dictates that our suspect would have come in from there after transporting his victims."

"Maybe he parked outside. Private vehicle." Sara offered, letting her flashlight beam slide up the long linoleum floor towards the fire door marked EXIT. Grissom didn't look convinced, but he followed her careful steps around the Luminol to the door. Spraying the push bar revealed nothing, and Sara sighed.

"Check the yard?"

"Might as well," she shrugged, "but most of it's gravel."

They stepped out into the quiet night, feeling a cold breeze rising up to meet their faces. Sara looked out over the bleak landscape. The hurricane fence, rusty and imposing stretched out along the edge of the property, illuminated only by the light from the open door behind them. Sara shivered.

"They made the word 'desolate' for places like this. Full of the leftover crap of industry, all piled high and left to decay in the sun and the wind," She murmured softly. Grissom, moved by her forlornly poetic turn, nodded and stepped closer to her, bumping her shoulder gently.

"The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization," he quoted softly. Sara flashed him a quick smile.

"Nice. Emerson. If I didn't know better I'd think you were flirting with me again."

It was a lovely opening, and Grissom felt a rush of warmth at Sara's kindness in giving it to him. He drew in a breath, leaning every so slightly closer to gaze into her eyes when she frowned.

"Is that covered in our warrant?"

For a moment Grissom stood there confused, wondering if she meant his bumbling attempt to quite possibly kiss her again when he realized she was looking over his shoulder into the darkness towards the back of the building. He turned his head just as Sara leaned forward, and her cheek brushed his, smooth and warm. A little sigh escaped Grissom before he could stop it, just a ghost of a sound, but it was enough to make her smile flash out in the light streaming out of the hallway behind them. She boldly stroked her cheek against his, then reluctantly stepped forward towards the dark shape in the distance, her feet crunching on the gravel.

The shape got bigger as they approached it, and Sara flicked on her flashlight, swinging it over the rusted hulk of an ancient cement mixer sitting on blocks. It stood a few feet behind the hurricane fence in the auto yard, but a sliding gate bound shut by a chain and padlock glittered in the light of the beam. Sara wrinkled her nose and Grissom, coming up behind her nodded.

"That's more than rust," he agreed. Sara looked at the lock, and lifted it carefully with her gloved fingers, examining it with minute care as the beam played over the grooved surfaces. She glanced up at Grissom.

"Dark stains in the crevices."

Within minutes, a swab glowed purple with a positive match for blood, and Sara began dusting the shackle of the lock. Grissom had brought Brass to the fence, speaking in low tones to him.

" . . . A rush on the addendum, so it won't be a problem. The salvage owner's already agreed to let us search the premises, but says he didn't put that lock on there—he uses Fortress locks, not Yales."

"Got a few partials on it, but the surface is textured. Jacquie might have to fume it," Sara commented softly. Grissom squinted at it and sighed.

"We can't cut it off without damaging evidence, Jim, so I guess this means taking the long way around."

It didn't take long before Grissom found himself strolling through the shadowy wrecks with Sara, each of them lugging their kits. Their flashlights bounced along the dry gravel and oil-stained yard, and periodically something would skitter away from the light. Sara tried not to shiver. The creaks of old car door hinges carried on the wind, and the mingled smells of rotting rubber and sun-baked rust where everywhere.

"I love places like this," Grissom mused softly. She turned to look at him, but he kept his gaze forward, his expression keen and thoughtful. Sara blinked, as they got closer to the looming cement mixer.

"Grissom, it's a crime scene."

"Show me any place that hasn't been, at one time or another. No, I love places like this because they offer a real challenge for evidence. Figuring out what's pertinent and what's not will be the test."

"Well, metaphorically speaking, all of it's assumed relevant," Sara offered gently, feeling that part of this conversation was about a bit more than just the case at hand. "I mean you yourself are always talking about the difference between looking and seeing, Grissom."

He turned then, his eyes meeting hers through the shadows of the salvage yard, and by the light of the moon Sara caught the sudden glint in them, as if something deep within the man had finally flared to life.

"I said that?" he murmured, his voice slow and wondering. Sara nodded, her grin flashing out quickly at his surprise. And then the stench reached them. Moving quickly, Sara brought her forearm over her nose, blinking as a nauseating waft of bile-sharp fermentation of flesh and chemicals hung in a cloud around the cement mixer.

"Oh Gawd . . . " Sara gulped indistinctly from her sweater-covered face. Grissom was already digging in his kit, pulling out a jar of Vapo-Rub and offering to her.

"Under your nose—" he ordered. Gratefully Sara scooped a finger full and smeared it across her filtrum, glad to have a stronger, cleaner scent blocking her nose. She dabbed a bit more on, then stared at her finger until Grissom handed her a Kleenex for the excess.

"I think we've found our second scene. The rendering pot," he muttered. Sara, eyes watering, nodded. They circled the site, flashlights sweeping over the dilapidated cement truck, and Grissom handed Sara a camera.

"Photos of everything, in duplicate."

It took them nearly an hour just to document the area surrounding the truck, and the pale light of dawn was lighting the eastern horizon in a streak of pink when Grissom finally pried open the hatch on the end of the truck. It slid open noiselessly, and he shot a dark look at Sara, who nodded.

"Oiled. He didn't want to be heard."

Within the huge mixing drum of the truck was a mélange of thick greyish pink goop that neither Sara nor Grissom would ever mistake for cement. Blinking hard against both protective and emotional tears, Sara carefully handed a glass collection cup to Grissom, who reached in and reverently scooped the surface of the sludge, then capped it quickly.

He pulled back and leaned against the side of the cement truck, his big shoulders rolling in an attempt to relax them. Sara stepped back and fought the upsurge of her stomach. She was glad she hadn't eaten, and that nobody else was on the scene just yet. Carefully she began to pack her kit as Grissom labeled the cup and set it in the collection box. The ghostly gleam of pre-dawn lightened the salvage yard now, and from somewhere nearby a mockingbird called. Sara rose, feeling adrift, and hollowed out by the horror of it all. She slowly peeled off her gloves.

Grissom did the same, took two long steps, and his arms slid around her, pulling Sara into his hug. It was warm and strong, flooding her with such a sense of security that she sagged against him without a trace of self-consciousness, clinging gratefully to the comfort he offered in that embrace.

"Oh GOD," she whispered against his shoulder, her eyes closed tightly. "He drowned them in it, didn't he, Grissom? Probably knocked them out, and just tossed their living bodies into that, that—"

"Shhhhh---" Grissom ordered, his own voice none too steady. His hands were rubbing her long back, sweeping up and down on that slender, shaking surface in soothing strokes. The degree of intimate comfort between them rose as they stood there, two people pulling courage from each other as the pink gold light of a chilly Nevada morning stretched through the salvage yard.

Sara fought her nauseated tears and rested against Grissom, loathe to let him go, but knowing she must. This unexpected tenderness between them had an addictive quality to it, and she gave him a final tight hug before beginning to pull away. Reluctantly he let her go, but only to arm's length. Grissom studied her pale face.

"Sara . . . " he said, filling her name with a world of meaning, all sorts of things packed into those two syllables. She looked up at him, the soft shine of Vapo-Rub under her pointed nose, the corners of her mouth quivering as her dark whisky-colored eyes brimmed.

"Sorry—" came her husky apology, "I just—"

"Don't ever show remorse for being human. This one's been exceptionally hard," Grissom muttered, his index finger brushing back a strand of her bangs that had drifted across her forehead. Sara nodded tightly, then with an impatient swipe of the heel of her hand, smeared her tears away and sniffed. Grissom reeled her into another hug, resting his chin just behind her shoulder.

No tingles, just warmth this time, secure and strong.

OOO OOO OOO

No one wanted to come into Grissom's office, not with the odor of decomp still wafting off of him, but he hadn't really noticed. As he finished typing up the notes concerning the find at the salvage yard, a soft cough interrupted him, and Grissom glanced up to see Simon's concerned face. The old man looked frailer than usual, but his smile was strong

"Gil . . . just wanted to see how you were doing."

Grissom opened his mouth to say something, but paused, reassessing his automatic response of 'fine'. Simon waited patiently.

"I'm elated about finding the rendering site," he began cautiously. Simon came in and settled himself down into one of the office chairs, his bright blue eyes watching Grissom very carefully. He gestured with a bony hand, encouraging him to speak again.

"And confident that the evidence collected there will help build a solid case against whatever suspect we bring in—" he continued in a low, slightly wary tone.

"Good, good. Now how do you FEEL?" the older man persisted gently. Grissom sighed. He was aware of stiffness throughout his shoulders, of spending too much overtime hunched in front of the computer, trying to get the report done while the horror was still fresh in his mind.

Nick and Warrick had done a further search of the yard along with some day shift people and found more evidence: A pair of rakes, presumably for pulling out bones; dolly tracks leading through the gate and the big prize, half dissolved heavy rubber gloves, destroyed on the outside, but hopefully containing enough epithelials inside to establish a suspect. And through it all, a grim determination by everyone involved to process this right.

No one spoke to the media.

Grissom gave a shrug to Simon's waiting gaze.

"Tired. Angry. Bewildered," he offered quietly. The other man nodded, and glanced at the desk; following the line of his vision, Grissom reached into his desk and pulled out the thermos of Cutty Sark and two glasses. Simon accepted one and sipped it neatly; both men slumped a little in their chairs.

"All of it normal, Gil. We both know that. How is Sara?"

Grissom looked up sharply, but Simon's eyes were unwavering, his expression mild.

"She's a little shaken," he admitted, remembering the feel of her delicate back under his hands, the way she nuzzled into his neck. "I sent her home after we got in, told her to get some rest."

Simon nodded slowly, then spoke up. "Which she didn't do. She showed up at the Bone Yard and put in about three hours with the cadets before I caught her and packed her off again. She's got stamina and a hell of a lot of drive, but not much balance."

Grissom pondered that, suspecting there was a lecture coming, and not minding it too much. Ever since that sparkler of an epiphany in the salvage yard, the one right before they'd stumbled on the nightmare of the cement mixer, he'd been aware of a shifting within himself. A burden lessened on the side of his thoughts; an added one to the impetus of his heart.

Not that he'd ever say anything to Simon about it.

"Damn it, Gil, when the hell ARE you going to admit you're in love with the woman?" came the New Orleans tainted grumble. Grissom blinked, caught unawares yet again as Simon gulped down the last of his whisky and set the glass on the desk. "Honest to Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were—"

"—Oh I love her all right," Grissom mused, rolling his half-empty glass between his thumb and fingers. "It took a while, but I stopped looking at Sara and started seeing her, Simon. Mostly seeing her with you and not me," here he flashed a cool glare. "Consider yourself warned."

Simon chuckled, not threatened in the least. His blue eyes glinted with mischief, and he gave a slow nod of approval. "Finally? And you're still sitting here reeking of decay when you could be in a hot shower with her, spritzing lemon juice on those really gorgeous—"

"Simon--" Grissom's tone had gone from cool to glacial. Simon snorted.

"—Shoulders. Get a grip on your possessiveness, Gil. Don't make me curb stomp you right here."

The image of seventy-year-old Simon in Doc Martens was enough to get Grissom smirking slightly; across the desk from him, Simon grinned too.

"So what's holding you back, Romeo? From what I can see, Sara's been pretty damn patient with you."

Grissom's gaze flickered to the door and he let a slow sigh leak out of him. "It's not that easy, Simon. There are . . . complications."

"Ahhhh," Simon sighed in mock-sympathy. "Well that's all right, Gil. I hear they make this marvelous little blue pill, not that I'VE ever needed it myself—"

The glare Grissom turned on him was enough to slag glass; Simon waved it blithely away and let his expression shift to a tolerantly soft look. "Seriously, Gil. What the hell is the problem?"

Grissom rubbed the back of his neck feeling amazingly vulnerable, like a hermit crab suddenly contemplating a new shell.

"I'm too . . ." Simon's sharp glare cut that thought off, and he weakly changed it, " . . . Out of my league. I'm not good at getting what I want in relationships, Simon. I never HAVE been and I don't want to screw this thing up."

"Ah. You need a romance coach," came the soft snort. Grissom worked his jaw back and forth, but couldn't quite deny Simon's observation. The older man lightly flicked his glass with strong fingers, hiding a wry smile as he did so.

"A coach makes it sound as if this is some sort of sport, like baseball or hockey. This isn't a game to me, Simon, not in the least." He complained.

"Nor to me, Gil. But let's face it; I do have the qualifications to know SOME thing about wooing women. It's my favorite hobby, right after . . . no—" he thought for a moment, "It IS my favorite hobby. Happy is the wooing that is not long a-doing."

"You've certainly had the practice," Grissom replied, but mildly. Simon snorted.

"I never practiced; I was a natural at it. A child prodigy, if memory serves. So what is your plan?"

Grissom looked slightly panicked and to buy time he took another sip of his whisky under Simon's scrutiny.

"I don't have a plan at the moment. I have . . . impulses without formulated responses. Stimulus with no framework."

"Feelings," clarified Simon, but gently. He smiled, his teeth showing as he did so. "And pretty damn strong ones, too. It's amazing how they can grow under the radar of your consciousness, and show up seemingly out of nowhere to broadside you at just the wrong moment."

Grissom fought the urge to nod, but Simon continued. "Now you know, and she knows, and both of you are waiting for the other one to make a move because both of you are so worried about making a misstep neither of you will try anything."

The observation hung in the silence between them, honest, true. Grissom set his glass down, looking off beyond the glass wall of his office.

"Astute."

"Not insurmountable though. I think you two ought to sleep together."

Grissom fumbled for his falling drink, the amber alcohol sloshing over one corner of his desk as he recovered the glass and stared at the puddle. Simon shook his head.

"You misheard me, Gil. Sleep together. As in doze off, get some rest, close your eyes and drift away to Lullaby Town."

Grissom cocked his head, looking like a dog that's been tricked by a spoonful of peanut butter once too often. "Why, precisely?" he demanded in a slow tone. Simon slowly rubbed his eyes patiently.

"Because the only way you two are every going to be comfortable is to move into each other's personal space and get used to it. Indulge in some risk-free intimacy and see how it feels."

Grissom stared at Simon as his normally sharp synapses failed to fire in any sort of logical pattern. Sluggishness had finally caught up with him, and he blinked, even as the older man began to rise from his chair, a bit creakily.

"Think it over, Gil. In the meantime I could use a lift back to the Sirocco. Thrilled as I am to be on this case, the hell it's playing with my circadian rhythms is less than fun."

OOO OOO OOO

The ride was short, and as Simon climbed out, he gave a gasp, hunching forward. Grissom grabbed his arm, thinking for a moment how frail and lean it was even through the sports jacket. Simon steadied himself under Grissom's grip and looked at him, managing a wry twist of his mouth.

"Muscle twinge. I'm going to double up on the aspirin tonight. Can you . . .?" he nodded towards the door, and Grissom walked with him, not holding him now, but hovering protectively. Simon didn't look at him as they rode up in the elevator.

The light flashed green after the cardkey slid in, and Simon pushed open the door to the dimly lit room, walking in carefully. Grissom reached for the light, but Simon stayed his hand, shaking his head.

"You'll wake her."

"Simon—" Fearful realization dawned on Grissom, and he shot a gaze towards the two beds, seeing the long low form of a person in one even as the filter of his mind recognized the length and breadth and general curves.

"What else could I do, Gil?" Simon sighed. "She told me she couldn't sleep, so I made up an excuse for her to come back here and organize some files. Casually mentioned that if she felt tired waiting up for me she could sack out on the other bed, because I knew—I KNEW she'd drop off once she got here."


	7. Chapter Seven

"Go home, Gil. Not to put too fine a point on it, you reek," Simon growled from the desk.

Grissom leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching Sara sleep. He waved off Simon's grumble, and contented himself with studying the slow rise and fall of her chest, barely visible under the blanket and quilt. At rest she was unmoving, utterly lost in slumber, and in the semidarkness the planes of her face were exotic. Grissom let his gaze sweep over her.

"Dying here. Slow suffocation. If you're so damn afraid of leaving her here with me, at least go shower up. She left a bunch of lemon halves from room service in there—" Simon added in an undertone. Grissom looked over at his mentor, who was busy writing something in the circle of light from the desk lamp.

"I should go home."

"But you're not going to," Simon balefully pointed out. "Noo, you don't trust ME, a gentle, honorable septuagenarian—"

"I don't trust you, the multi-married Simon Munro—" Grissom replied calmly. Simon tried to look annoyed and failed, slightly pleased at his status of potential threat. He peered over his reading glasses at Grissom.

"Okay, you have me there. So if you're staying, please go shower at the very least. I'll totter out and get your spare clothes from the car if you trust me THAT far and you can sack out on the other bed while I get my damned Society of Anthro-Forensics conference speech written."

Grissom thought it over and gave a slow nod; Simon collected the car keys and left, grumbling softly about putting in overtime as a geriatric cupid. When he returned with the overnight case, he knocked on the bathroom door and handed it over to the steamy muscled arm that reached out from the crack.

Simon returned to his speech, grinning to himself over the small side trip he'd made to the front desk on the way back in, and waited. Gradually the water stopped and after a while Grissom came out, dressed in clean jeans and a sweatshirt, toweling off his hair. Sara had rolled over, but slept on, and he shot her a glance before turning to face Simon.

"I should go—" he repeated. Simon shrugged, pen moving in graceful longhand over the legal pad. Out beyond the curtains the day was dawning, muffled by the thick drapes.

"So go. Believe me, I won't stop you."

"--And that alone raises my suspicions," came the answering grumble. Simon gave a noisy sigh that he immediately stifled as he glanced over his shoulder at sleeping Sara.

"Christ, Gil, get in BED already and let me get this thing finished, will you? I have to fax it to Holly by ten and if you keep harping at me I'll never get it done."

Grissom cast a longing glance at the empty bed and hesitated. Simon snorted softly. "Hit the sack. No bedtime story either, unless you're interested in hearing this speech—"

Grissom peeled back the coverlet and slid into the bed, his chuckles low and deep. "No thanks, Simon. I want to sleep, not go comatose."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Tell me, does Sara know about this cruel habit you have of abusing senior citizens?" Simon replied absently, crossing a sentence out. "I think she ought to be told you're not nearly as wonderful as both of you seem to think you are."

Grissom lay back, his hands crossed behind his head on the pillow, quiet for a moment.

"She thinks I'm wonderful?" he asked in a sotto voice, not daring to actually look at Simon. With a long-suffering sigh, the anthropologist set his pen down for a moment.

"Yes, Gil she does. Take a moment to consider the facts. She moved to this state and city because you asked her to. She's put up with your damned dithering for what, four, five years now?"

"Dither? What sort of verb is THAT? I don't dither, Simon."

"Pffft! You damn well DO when it comes to matters of the heart, Gil. According to the gossip I've picked up, Sara tried to make you jealous, which didn't pan out, and then fought hard for a promotion so you'd at least acknowledge she competent and hard working, but apparently that didn't pan out EITHER," came the quiet but slightly accusing whisper. Grissom felt his face heat up at Simon's recitation; he rolled towards the man and he opened his mouth to argue, but Simon shook his head.

"It doesn't matter, Gil. She's still here. A little less naïve perhaps, but at your side, like always. Don't you think it's time you made the choice? Fish or cut bait, Doctor Grissom, because God as my witness, I personally am tired of seeing such a brilliant man so unhappy despite the riches already in his grasp. And that's all I'm going to say on the damn subject, so get some sleep."

With that, Simon picked up his pen again and forged on with his speech, ignoring the low grumble coming from the bed behind him. He wrote for twenty more minutes, racing through sentences that efficiently if somewhat colloquially conveyed his love for his vocation, and risked a glance as he finished the last one.

Both Grissom and Sara were sleeping now, each curled in their beds, and Simon sighed, looking at the pair of them

"Ah children, you do frustrate me so sometimes. Both of you headstrong, both of you too smart for you own good—" he whispered with an amused smile. Quietly he arose, flinching at the creak of his knees and back, and picked up the speech. He quietly took a suit of clothes out of the closet, packed up some toiletries and underwear and left the room, locking the door behind him and slipping both card keys back under it.

At the main lobby, Simon sweet talked the cute concierge into faxing his speech to the University of Tennessee forensic Anthropology Department, C/O Holly O'Sullivan, and then took the elevator to the seventh floor, the new room key card in hand. He whistled happily to himself.

OOO OOO OOO

He could see her leaning, too close, FAR too close, about to slip, and yet as he tried to move, his limbs felt as it they weighed a ton. Grissom tried to shout, and warn Sara about being on the edge of the cement mixer,TOOCLOSE and the hot horrid fear of seeing her FALL into the flesh pulped acid burned through his mind and heart in one searing RUSHofFEAR—

"Grissom!"

He woke in a spasm of terror, blinking up into Sara's worried brown eyes as she stared down at him, her hands on his shoulders. Bit by bit he relaxed, the comfort of seeing her whole and real, her dark hair dangling down almost in his face. He reached up, hands sliding along her arms and to her elegant shoulders, and the overwhelming relief of touchng her, feeling her solidity made the fear flow away like a wave receding back into the sea. Sara's apprehensive expression shifted as she drank in the bare lines of emotion on Grissom's face.

"It's okay. It was just a nightmare . . ." she soothed in her low, husky voice, "You're okay . . . "

"Barely—" he blurted, feeling the residual tingles of the acute horror fading now. His thumbs slid along the front of her shoulders, moving in little caressing circles, and Sara shivered a tiny bit, but refused to pull away. Carefully, she reached a hand out to his forehead, finding it damp, and hot.

"Yeah, well it's over now and you're fine. A little warm, but fine," she reassured him again. Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath, finding the scent of sleep-warmed Sara utterly entrancing. Hints of soap and lemons mingled with warm feminine musk beckoned him on, and without realizing it; he pulled her shoulders, bringing her closer down. Her hair brushed the sides of Grissom's face.

"Warm," he croaked, and surging up, Grissom kissed her. Surprised for a moment, Sara stiffened, but the hot press of his mouth was impossible to resist, and she leaned down into it, the nurturing urge within rapidly morphing into a brighter, hotter desire. Grissom didn't give her time to think; his kiss hummed against her lips and Sara parted them, her moan of desire eagerly gliding out to slide against his in a lovely primitive response.

Glorious, their kiss shifted and danced on their mouths and tongues, as strong and blatantly sexual as any words, any thoughts that either Sara or Grissom had ever had; and by the time they reluctantly gave in to the need for air, both of them were panting.

"Jesus, where did THAT come from?" Sara blurted, half-laughing even as she brushed her lips against his cheek. Grissom struggled to sit up and hang on to her at the same time; his blue eyes danced with sparks in the dim light.

"Desperation. Desire. Lots of that," he admitted in a wondering tone, his gaze drinking her in with awe. Sara tipped her head up and laughed, the lovely muscles of her long throat moving as she did so.

"You too, huh? And here I thought it was all pretty much one-sided. That I'd always be Teacher's pet and nothing more than that."

"Sara—" Grissom reached out, his big hands cupping her face with tenderness as he tilted it towards him. His thumbs stroked her high cheekbones. "I always wanted to do more than pet you."

She laughed again at his unconscious double entendre, and a second later he blushed. The sight of him red-faced and bright-eyed was so enticing that Sara bent to kiss him again, her mouth softer this time. Grissom let himself drink her in, not demanding anything this time, simply riding the softness of her lips. When Sara pulled away, she smirked at his slightly dazed expression.

"Grissom, not to be nosy, but what are you doing sleeping in Simon's bed?" she asked. He leaned back against the headboard and sighed a little. Sara was in an oversized black and green-checkered flannel shirt and sweatpants, obviously her spare gear. She sat on the edge of the bed, not quite out of arm's reach but out of harm's reach, which Grissom wasn't sure he appreciated. He ran a hand over his bearded chin before speaking up.

"I had to take him home, and we both found you here, asleep." He offered. Sara gave a little encouraging nod, and Grissom looked around.

"Yeah . . . . and?"

"And I was pretty tired, so Simon talked me into taking a nap . . . ." Even to his own ears it sounded horribly lame. Sara's grin widened. She leaned forward until her nose was just touching against his.

"Let me get this straight—Simon talked YOU into staying here and sleeping."

Grissom's eyes closed, since he couldn't focus with Sara so near. His other senses: touch, scent, hearing took over, and he shifted, hoping she wouldn't notice his physical enthusiasm for the tickle of her breath on his mouth. Slowly, reluctantly he shook his head.

"No, all right, actually I volunteered."

"Pretty selfless of you, offering to stay and keep my virtue secure from a man in his seventies."

"Four marriages, Sara, Four! And God only knows how many love affairs—" he protested faintly, his mouth brushing hers in a slow caress. Grissom decided he liked a LOT about this moment: the almost kiss which was about to become one, the way Sara willingly slid into his arms, the fact that they were on a bed . . .

"So what you're saying here," Sara murmured against his lips, "is you'd prefer I didn't sleep with Simon."

Grissom growled. It startled him almost as much as it did Sara, who spluttered into giggles at the low sound rumbling through his chest. He tightened his hold on her and recklessly kissed her once more, getting in a good tasty tongue sweep before glaring into her mischievous brown eyes.

"No sleeping with Simon. In ANY context, Sara. Platonically, accidentally, spontaneously—" he warned. Sara tossed her head back and picked up the thread of his words with ease.

"So not willfully, or inadvertently, or that really dangerous one . . . deliber—" She never finished that taunt since Grissom tugged her him and quite thoroughly sucked it off her mouth. Not that she minded in the least, her long arms winding around his neck. He leaned back again; taking her with him and for a long lazy moment the world between them consisted of tangling tongues and urgent little moans that seemed to arise between them.

Sara found Grissom made a quite solid mattress himself, even with a sheet and a few blankets across his body. He was certainly . . . lumpy enough, she thought giddily as she straddled his hips. The resulting shift of her weight made him shudder visibly, and Sara was quite pleased with that effect.

"You like me—" she observed with a grin. Grissom opened one eye and tried to glare at her, but a little wriggle of her bottom on his lap dissolved his expression into a helpless sigh.

"Like is far too mild, Sara. I LIKE calamari. I LIKE the New York Philharmonic. You, however, I adore."

"Prove it—" she challenged, enormously thrilled to hear the unhesitating honesty in his low tone.

"I'll buy you shoes, and take you out to dinner, I'll water your plants, I'll spend evenings listening to the scanner with you, I'll send you valentines and name a tarantula after you . . ." Grissom rattled off in a strained but playful tone. "I'll give you all the best assignments and let you use Red Creeper whenever you want, I'll let you have my official parking space, Sara—"

She listened to this list of offers, wide-eyed and soulful, seeing so much in his deep blue gaze as his hands slid up her back again. Sara blinked against the sudden heat of tears and hugged him tightly, her long arms wrapping around Grissom with happy desperation.

"All," she choked, "I'll take them ALL, thanks—"

"Good," he agreed softly, whispering the words into her hair. "Good."

For a moment they didn't speak, but merely held each other in a warm cocoon of comfort in the dim light. Sara finally shifted and shot an anxious look around the room, her mouth twisted in a comical expression of concern.

"Simon—speaking of the man, where IS he?"

Grissom's eye caught a glint from the rug; he looked down to see the two room keys lying on the floor like an opening hand of Twenty-One. He frowned. Sara followed his gaze and gave a little snort of amusement.

"Geez, subtle, isn't he?"

"And the Do No Disturb sign's missing too—care to bet it's on the other side of the door?" Grissom pointed out with commendable patience. Sara snickered.

"Let's face it, Grissom, the man's a die-hard romantic with an agenda neither one of us can stop. Given his patience and persistence, I think I can see how he's been married four times."

Grissom looked as if he wanted to say something, but Sara was beginning to unbutton her shirt, and that wiped all thoughts from his mind as he gaped at her for a moment. She arched an elegant eyebrow, daring him to speak. He blinked, and leaned back against the headboard, not saying a word, just watching and waiting. Sara's dimples deepened and she flicked the flannel collar open exposing the sleek bones and cream smooth skin of her shoulders, the tender, intimate curve of her breasts. As she uncovered her nipples, Grissom gave a little gasp.

"Sara . . . "

He stared, unable to stop himself, feeling a heavy thudding in his chest along with the roaring in his ears. Time seemed to slow, and only the warm weight of Sara on his lap lent any reality to the moment as Grissom felt his mouth go dry. Sara awkwardly peeled the shirt off and dropped it over the side of the bed.

"Um . . . This is okay, right?"

He couldn't formulate words, and certainly couldn't stop staring at the sweet perfection he'd always suspected concerning Sara's chest. She looked down at herself, trying to figure out what had Grissom so enthralled. Slowly he reached a hand out, sliding it under the soft perky heft of one breast, and the warm weight of it made him moan. Sara cupped her hand around his, pulling his palm flat against her pebbly nipple.

"They don't break—" she teased softly, aroused and amused at Grissom's speechlessness. His gaze flicked up at her face, and at the sight of her smile, he stammered.

"I-I know that. I just—I mean, Sara, we're—"

"On a bed. I've wanted to be on a bed with you for a long time, in case you didn't know. Simon's giving us an opportunity, and I figured you might be . . . interes--ooohhh . . . " Judging from the slow stroking his thumb made over her nipple, Sara happily sensed her instincts were right. And that Grissom was better at this than she'd given him credit for. His other hand came up and mirrored the gesture, making Sara arch back in pleasure in his big palms. For a moment, Grissom continued his teasing, then he pulled Sara forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck as his arms slid around her bare ribcage.

"May I make love to you?" he asked in muffled desperation, making Sara laugh out loud.

"I just took off half my clothes, Grissom—how much more of an invitation do you NEED?"

Apparently that was enough; He promptly wrestled her under the covers and amid much whispering and tugging and groaning and slurpy kissing managed to get both of them out of the rest of whatever they'd had on. Sara was astounded at Grissom's single-minded drive, not to mention his persistence; and while he was ruthless, he was equally gentle in his quest.

"Long, my God you're a long woman, Sara—" he observed, on his knees now, pulling back the covers to study her lanky body. On her back now, Sara bent on knee and flexed a leg up in the air, like a dancer. Grissom caught a hand around the calf and kissed her shin reverently. Apparently the taste appealed to him and he did it again, working his way up her leg, his beard tickling her ankle and the instep of her foot before Sara tried to tug away from him.

"Hey, hey—"

He rested it against one bare shoulder, and Sara let her big toe touch his tousled curls at his temple. Grissom looked down at her, and his eyes widened. She caught his glance; between them the glorious little moment caught and held. Tenderly Grissom smiled at her, stroking a finger along her nose and around her lips.

"Um, Sara . . before we go any further—" he began, reddening slightly, but his voice soft as he shifted to his hands and knees over her. She blinked up at him, a surge of disappointment shooting through her. Her lower lip quivered.

Grissom hated himself in that bleak moment, hated the fact that he was a grown man, responsible, mature and currently without a choice. The allure of Sara's lean, sweet body taunted him, and even as he cleared his throat and spoke, one of his hands slid over her warm skin, drinking the satiny sensation in.

"I don't . . . HAVE . . . anything," he muttered, feeling his face flush both with the confession and the realization that he was actually saying such a thing out loud to the woman of his fantasies. Sara shifted, her eyes sliding down his body and stopping just under his navel. She frowned.

"Yes you do. It's right THERE. Maybe you haven't used it much lately, which I can understand since I'm a little out of practice myself and all, but trust me Grissom, you DO have—"

"Sara—" with confused patience, he shook his head through a rueful smirk and tried again. "Not THAT. Yes, I've got THAT. Trust me, I've been all too aware I have one when you're around. It's constantly defying gravity in fact. No, I mean I don't HAVE anything . . . ." he hesitated again; hoping she would clue in, help him out. Sara's pretty brows came together in confusion. One of her hands slid around the warm heft of his shaft and Grissom bit his lips in an overload of pleasure at her casual stroke.

"Ohh! You don't HAVE anything—" she echoed, nodding her head. "Okay. Now I get it. You don't have any condoms."

Her hand continued its soft stroking, gliding up and down the blood-engorged length until Grissom dropped a steely grip on her thin wrist, his nostrils flaring.

"Stop. That. Now." He ordered unhappily. Sara thought it over for a moment and shook her head.

"I don't see why I should. You like the way it feels, and I like the way it feels, right?"

Perplexed, Grissom glared at her, noting even in his frustration how rich and beautiful the glint of mischief looked in her eyes. Sara stuck her tongue out at him, and that little taunt was enough to make him drop heavily on her, pinning her on the mattress amid squealing and kissing.

"Okay, that was MEAN, Grissom—just for that I might not tell you about the condoms in my purse—" Sara huskily snorted, dodging his kiss. He blinked, catching her head in his hands and forcing her to look up at him.

"You HAVE condoms?" he demanded, his hips pressing on hers, the thick ridge of his shaft throbbing between their bodies. Sara smirked boldly.

"Yes—"

"Where!?" his tone held comic desperation.

Sara's shout of laughter rang out as her hands pressed on his lips. She wriggled her hips lasciviously against his and smiled, a deep, endearing look tinged with sadness and patience. Grissom blinked, stunned by the depth of her expression.

"Jesus, Grissom, I love you. I love how you were willing to stop because you were worried about getting me pregnant. I love how you're turned on and STILL serious about doing things the right way. I love you because you're big and warm and I want to feel you deep inside me if you can wait a minute for me to get the box, okay?"

He nodded, blue eyes big like a boy's, and Sara slid out from under him, standing tall and graceful in her nudity. She strolled to the window and picked up her purse, which sat on the floor there, then fished in it. Turning, she tossed a small package at Grissom, who caught it just the way he'd caught the battery before. Sara shifted her weight to one hip.

"If you can fit into one of those, I'm sure I can get you into something a size or two smaller—" she taunted softly. Grissom cocked his head, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"Come here."

OOO OOO OOO

Simon filled in the last clue of the crossword puzzle and sighed happily. From his vantage point in the lobby, he had a clear view of the bank of elevators. He checked his watch, and began a soft countdown to himself. "Fifty seven, fifty six, fifty five . . ."

When he reached the teens, the doors of the far elevator opened and two familiar people stepped out. Simon studied them as they slowly strode through the lobby, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed as he watched Grissom. The man was smiling, his attention focused completely on the radiant Sara beside him, who was using her hands as she spoke. They stopped at one of the soda machines and Grissom fed it quarters, letting Sara punch her selection before choosing something for himself.

Simon could see the easy give and take between them, and even though they didn't touch each other, anyone looking at them would have the impression that they had. Grissom said something that made her laugh; Sara leaned her weight back on one hip and smiled up at him. Simon felt a quick hard spike of loneliness shoot through his chest. He ignored it, rising above the unfair emotion to struggle to his feet. He intercepted the two of them mid-lobby; amused to see both of them turn slightly pink.

"Good evening. I take it we all slept well?" Simon muttered blandly, his mouth curling in a very small smirk. Sara flashed a smile back at him, striving for casualness.

"Simon! Hey, yes, I think we can all safely say we slept well, yeah." She murmured. Grissom pursed his mouth and looked at his mentor steadily. Simon's smile softened.

"Excellent," he murmured. The two of them flanked him, and all together they walked out of the Sirocco into the cool evening.

The lab hummed with efficient activity; Grissom took quiet pride in the smooth flow of processing taking place around him. He looked up as Nick passed by, hanging on the doorframe, his face both grim and pleased.

"Got a suspect, Grissom. Brass is bringing him in now."

Grissom rose from his chair, feeling the surge of tension return between his shoulder blades. He set the photos he'd been looking at down, and came around the desk, feeling a twinge through his hip and hiding a smile, remembering how he'd gotten it. He made his way down the hall, seeing the back end of Brass passing into the interrogation room. Carefully he looked into the two-way glass at the man sitting at the table there.

He was a kid. Young. Hispanic and thin, with a pockmarked face and a shaved head. He wore a dark green coverall from A-Pro Chemicals that was a bit baggy on his lanky frame, and kept his eyes down as Brass softly spoke to him.

"For the record, it says on this employment form that your name is Daniel David Galaz?"

The young man looked up, clearing his throat. His expression grew softer.

"That's my human name, yeah."


	8. Chapter EightEpilog

Brass looked at the boy gently, but his dark eyes never left the suspect's face, and although is voice was soft; there was an edge of wariness to it.

"Your human name?"

"Yes. The one I use here walking the earth. The one I accept that men call me when they do not know I am in disguise among them." Galaz murmured with a hint of pride. Brass let that sink in a moment, then gently prodded.

"Assuming I'm one of those mere mortals who doesn't recognize you . . .what would be your . . . nonhuman name?"

" I am Tuoni, son of Tlazolteotl." The boy suddenly smiled, his expression bright and happy. The effect was startlingly creepy, given the setting and Brass fought the urge to lean back. Next to him, Sara and Simon both tensed a little, and Simon spoke first, his New Orleans accent a bit heavier as he stared at the boy.

"So you're the son of an Aztec goddess then?" he commented very gently. Galaz nodded, his eyes back on the table surface.

"Yes. Tlazolteotl. My mother found me years ago and whispers to me in the night. She tells me that to be strong and join her I must pay her tribute, as a good son does. This world has forgotten the old gods, and the way they took care of the people and the lands. When I follow the old ways I honor her and give her strength. In due time I too, will be a god."

"Okay, I think it's clear a psych evaluation is priority one," Brass muttered in an undertone to Sara, who gave the tiniest of nods. Next to her, Simon kept his eyes on the boy.

"So you're following the old ways then. Going back to the true beliefs from the ancient times. And your . . . offerings?"

"Pure, all of them. From the hills and mountains and places sacred to my mother and her kind. They come north, seeking labor, but before this civilization defiles their souls I rescue them from that fate." Galaz smiled dreamily. "I give them the highest honor a virgin could wish—a noble death of purity. Their hearts make my mother proud, and my body strong enough to begin the long process of change."

"Oh God—" Sara rose, moving to the door of the interrogation room and through it, fighting the sharp rise of bile as the words sank in. Grissom turned from the two-way mirror and grabbed her by the forearms, gripping them tightly and Sara bleakly looked up at him, her eyes wet and wide. "He ate their hearts, Grissom—Jesus, he—"

Grissom reeled her in, not giving a damn who might be walking by, or looking. Sara clung to him hard for a moment, taking a long deep moment of comfort from his hug. One of his hands was on the back of her neck, the other along her spine. "He's mentally ill, Sara. Schizophrenic I'd guess, and yet capable of slipping through the cracks because some part of him understands how to blend in. Menial job, clean record, a face you'd never look at twice. He picks victims who have no one to miss them until it's too late, victims who trust him until it's too late. But we have him, Sara. It's over."

"It's NOT over. Those bones have no names, Grissom. They need names, they need rest and out there, families need to know!" she whispered back urgently, pulling away to look him in the face. Grissom stared back, then reached up to brush away a strand of her hair from her forehead.

"Sara—that job could take months. Years. You'd have to work the databases of hundreds of Mexican police departments and even if we get names from Galaz, which I doubt will happen, it's still a nearly impossible job, honey."

"No it's not," she argued back. "The bone measurements Simon and I have compiled will give us the heights and the details of the facial structures will give us reconstructions to work with. I'll do it on my time off, Grissom, on my weekends. Just—don't say no. It's important."

He sighed. His visions of future weekends had included Sara without the skulls and clay, but looking into her eyes it was impossible to deny her this request. He slowly nodded, but something in his face made her mouth twist in a wry grin and she ducked out of his embrace hastily.

"Um, sorry—I didn't mean to—" she stammered, suddenly realizing where they were. Grissom slid his hands down to catch her thin wrists, squeezing them lightly.

"I did. And yes, it's important. I'd never say no to something that meant this much to you, Sara." The simple honesty of his words made her look up at him gratefully, and in that moment, they smiled at each other, caught up in the strength and joy flowing between them.

EPILOG

Eight months later, Grissom fumbled with the bow tie. He hated the damn things, could never follow the diagram and wished he could get away with a clip-on. But it was important to Sara, and since they both knew they'd probably never go through a ceremony like this again, he sighed and looked at the chart once more.

"Problems?"

"Yes. All this fuss so I can look like a headwaiter at a French restaurant," he grumbled, but gently. Sara sailed over, her long gown whispering on the carpet as she peered over his shoulder.

"Should I call Catherine?" she teased.

"No, she's out in the pews already—" Grissom commented, shooting a wry smile at Sara. "Care to give it a shot?"

Sara came around to face him, and reached for the ends of the tie, twisting and tucking them with efficient gestures. Grissom lifted an eyebrow at her; she shrugged.

"I'm good with my hands."

"I know. How WELL I know—" he replied, a hint of pink over his face. Sara flashed a grin up at him, reckless and sweet as she glanced around the room at the choir robes and neatly stacked hymnals.

"So—I have to get to the back of the church—going to be all right here?"

"We're alone—" he suggested with a smirk, checking his watch, "And since we're still waiting for Father James—"

"No! Not in a church, and certainly not before the wedding—are you nuts?" she giggled back, even as she stroked the front of his tuxedo. Grissom sighed.

"Completely, to get talked into this. You and Simon ganged up on me. In fact, I could make a case that goes all the way back to the Bone Yard case—"

"You didn't have to say yes, Grissom," Sara pointed out reasonably, nuzzling his face as she stepped into his light embrace. He slid his hands along the silk of her dress and sighed happily. She looked utterly delectable, and he could smell the soft scent of Shalimar on her.

"Of course I did. If I'd refused, Simon would have pulled his famous 'I'm not going to live forever' speech and tapped into my guilt reservoir. Between your disappointment and his I'd be completely condemned."

Sara laughed, and kissed him lightly. She scooped up her bouquet and stepped to the door, waving lightly before disappearing again. Grissom sighed, but happily this time. The sound of footsteps approached, and Simon walked into the room, his glance taking in Grissom with amusement.

"The priest is here, so it's time to get this show on the road, Gil. You okay? Tie looks good."

"Thanks." Grissom glanced at his mentor affectionately. Simon still filled out a tux well, and the bright red rose on his lapel looked both jaunty and bright. Simon sighed and reached out a hand to Grissom, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Nervous?"

"Not me." Grissom replied honestly, fishing in his pocket to make sure the ring was still there. Simon snorted a little.

"You were back when it was YOUR wedding." He accused with a grin. Grissom's mouth twitched at the recentmemory, but he refused to be baited. Seeing it, Simon chuckled.

"And a damned good one it was. Come on, my beloved Holly and Mrs. Grissom waiting for us, and I'm certainly not getting any younger. I love romance, I surely do."

And Grissom followed the groom out, smiling to himself as the opening strains of bridal processional rolled out through the church.

END


End file.
